


And Never Have I Heard Anything More Divine

by Little_White_Lie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Because I love Jehan, But! There is Jehan, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Enjolras will not be called Enjolras for a lot of the fic but it's still him I swear, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, General disregard for one's own life, Grantaire - Freeform, Jehan's Horrible Fashion Sense, Less of an au and more of a continuation, M/M, Nonbinary Jehan, Pining, Reincarnation, There are very few actual Amis in here (sorry), Yes Grantaire is a warning all on his own, death is not the end, it's not cute it's just Bad (TM), suicidal behavior, warnings for:, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-05-18 19:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_White_Lie/pseuds/Little_White_Lie
Summary: Every time he woke up in a new place, a new body, he began the search again for the body that held Enjolras’s soul. The body’s name was always different. The face was always different. But the soul was always exactly the same. Once Grantaire found the right soul he would stand by that person’s side until their inevitable deaths. Enjolras would die for a great cause, and Grantaire?Grantaire would die for Enjolras. He died over and over and over again so that Enjolras would never have to die alone.Perhaps it was noble. Perhaps it was suicidal. Perhaps when he had awoken in a new body that first time he should have gone and enjoyed his new lease on life, fallen in love, had a family, died of old age in his sleep, and maybe that time death would’ve made him forget as it was meant to.Grantaire didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, a life without Enjolras at his side to give him something to believe in wasn’t a life at all.





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Nietzsche's The Gay Science.
> 
> Guys, this is going to be pretentious as fuck. Just lean in. 
> 
> Right now the plan is for this to be 15 chapters and about 30k words. I'll try to update weekly, but don't hold me to that. 
> 
> Please don't ever do anything Grantaire does.
> 
> Just a disclaimer, I've never read the Brick and I've only seen the staged show once five years ago (I don't live in a good area for theater). If I say something that isn't canon because my dumbass didn't do enough research, I'm sorry, go ahead and tell me in the comments.

Enjolras stood, golden and proud in the morning sunlight streaming through the window.  

 

He stood alone in front of the soldier’s guns, and he did not flinch. He would die, and Grantaire could see that he had accepted that fact. There was determination in his eyes. He thought that his death meant something. Grantaire didn’t know if that was true, but he did know one thing:

 

He would not let Enjolras die alone. 

 

He moved through the crowd of soldiers, and they parted for him. He went to Enjolras’s side. He took his hand. 

 

_ You don’t believe in anything.  _

 

_ I believe in you.  _

 

Enjolras rose the red flag in defiance. The guns fired. Grantaire fell. Enjolras’s hand slipped out of his as he was thrown through the window. 

 

Grantaire died. There was absolute blackness. There was absolute silence. He was free of suffering. He could finally sleep.


	2. Two.

Then he woke up.


	3. Nine.

The internet had changed how he went about this. It was an incredible invention, really. Before, the search had involved endless readings of newspapers from all around the world, extensive travel, and sometimes just blind faith that this felt like the right country, the right city, the right building. Now, he was able to search for the criteria he had built up over the years while sitting in his boxers and eating sugary cereal in his apartment in Paris, and he only had to travel when he was about 75% sure that he was headed to the right place. 

 

Three days ago he’d found the Facebook page for a small group in Chicago. It fit the bill. It was populated by young people, radically leftist, occasionally violent, and overambitious in its scope. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been any pictures on the page, but that wouldn’t have really helped. Grantaire never truly knew if he’d found what he was looking for unless he was there in person. 

 

Now, he entered a small, dingy coffee shop in Chicago’s South Side, looking around with a little smile. It smelled like burnt coffee and cigarette smoke. The tabletops were sticky. The prices were dirt cheap. The staff glared at him. One of the lights was flickering, about to go out. 

 

It felt like home. 

 

He ordered an espresso and got a latte (he had a feeling that he would’ve gotten a latte no matter what he’d ordered) and went to sit in the corner of the shop. The meeting time listed on the Facebook page was not for another two hours, but if this was the right place, the person he would be looking for would be here at the very least an hour early. 

 

He sipped his revolting latte, lit a cigarette, and waited. He prayed this was the right place. He was twenty two. He’d never lived longer than twenty nine. His time was running out. 

 

As people entered the coffee shop, Grantaire found himself first looking for long blond hair and clear blue eyes, even though it had been almost two centuries since he’d seen that particular face. He had to remind himself that that was not how this worked. He had to look for the other, deeper signs. The way that the person moved, always with purpose, with intent. Like every step could change the world if he meant it enough. The hunger he carried with him, even when he wasn’t malnourished. The almost-mania of someone constantly running on two little sleep and too much caffeine. The careless manner of his dress and hair. His eyes. The fire in them. Grantaire always knew once he looked into the right person’s eyes that he’d found him again. 

 

Enjolras. 

 

Every time he woke up in a new place, a new body, he began the search again for the body that held Enjolras’s soul. The body’s name was always different. The face was always different. But the soul was always exactly the same. Once Grantaire found the right soul he would stand by that person’s side until their inevitable deaths. Enjolras would die for a great cause, and Grantaire? 

 

Grantaire would die for Enjolras. He died over and over and over again so that Enjolras would never have to die alone. 

 

Perhaps it was noble. Perhaps it was suicidal. Perhaps when he had awoken in a new body that first time he should have gone and enjoyed his new lease on life, fallen in love, had a family, died of old age in his sleep, and maybe that time death would’ve made him forget as it was meant to. 

 

Grantaire didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, a life without Enjolras at his side to give him something to believe in wasn’t a life at all. 

 

Grantaire looked down at his hands wrapped around the paper coffee cup. They were big, with long, broad fingers. The pink palms were callused and the dark knuckles were scabbed. They were working hands. Fighting hands. This body was tall and strong, it would be helpful in whatever revolution it was needed for this time. He took a hair tie from his wrist and pulled the dreadlocks that hung down his back into a careless bun. This face was actually more handsome than he normally was. He wanted Enjolras to see it. Maybe this would be the lifetime that Enjolras fell in love with him. 

 

He laughed to himself, shaking his head. He took a drag from his cigarette, blowing out a long trail of smoke. Now that was a ridiculous thought. 

 

The bell over the door jangled in a distinctly unpleasant manner and Grantaire looked up hopefully. A man walked (or maybe stalked was the better word) into the coffee shop, bundled up against the Chicago winter cold. He wore a red jacket. Grantaire sat up. Enjolras always loved red, no matter what body he was in. The man’s face was covered by a thick scarf and knitted cap. All Grantaire could really see was an elegant nose, pink from the cold. The man gave the barista a travel mug, obviously speaking his order, though Grantaire couldn’t tell what it was. Enjolras liked strong black tea, not coffee. Grantaire watched with bated breath as the barista filled the mug with hot water and three black tea bags. 

 

_ Please, _ he thought.  _ Please, let it be you. _

 

The man paid for his tea and took it to a table near the center of the room. He was facing away from Grantaire as he took off his scarf, showing a pale neck. His jacket was next, revealing a thin, birdlike frame. Then he took off his hat, and Grantaire’s world tilted on its axis as a cascade of blond hair fell down just past his shoulders. 

 

In the light shining through the dirty front windows of the cafe the golden curls looked like a halo around his head. 

 

_ Apollo _ , Grantaire thought. 

 

He shook himself. This may not even be the right person, he told himself sternly, and if it was he certainly was not going to earn his trust by acting weird. He had to be a stranger interested in the cause, nothing more. That was always the hard part, acting like he didn’t know Enjolras.

 

He ground his cigarette out on the ashtray in front of him, threw away the remains of the latte, and went over to the table with a charming, non threatening smile. Once he was behind the man he spoke in a deep voice that still clung onto the remains of his original French accent. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know if this is where Chicago’s Legion for Change meets? I’m not sure if I mixed up the time or the place…” 

 

The man turned to look at him, and Grantaire felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs as his dark eyes met a pair of fiery blue ones. He was the same. He was exactly the same. He was--

 

_ No _ . Grantaire forced himself to look closer. While this man was blond and blue eyed, he did not look the same as the first Enjolras. While Enjolras had had strong, masculine features, this man was delicate, pretty in a way Enjolras had not been. He had a smattering of freckles where Enjolras had had none. His hair was like cornsilk rather than burnished gold, and his eyes were bright like a summer sky instead of dark like a stormy sea. He was not by any means the same as Enjolras. 

 

But… God, he was so _ close. _ Close the way no other body that had held Enjolras’s soul had ever been. And Grantaire could see now that this was Enjolras, could see it in his eyes and could hear it in the annoyance in his voice as he tried to get Grantaire’s attention--

 

Grantaire forced his focus back to the present, where the man’s clipped voice was asking, “Hello? Are you there? Are you going to say something or are you just going to keep staring at me like a creep?” 

 

Grantaire coughed awkwardly, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I… sorry you just look so much like an old friend of mine. You startled me. What was it you were saying?” 

 

The man looked suspicious, but finally he said, “You mixed up the time, not the place. The meeting isn’t for another hour and a half.” 

  
Grantaire smiled, trying to return his status to nonthreatening. “Oh, thanks. That’s good. Better to wait here for a little while than to run around trying to find the right place, right? Are you in the group?”

 

The man slowly nodded. “I am. I’m the president. My name is Jules,” he stuck out his hand, and Grantaire shook it. It was so small and fragile. He felt like it could break in his own. Another difference between this man and the first Enjolras: he had had a handshake like steel. 

 

“I’m R,” Grantaire said. He’d never told any Enjolras but the first his actual name, though he couldn’t explain why. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

 

Jules did not return the pleasantry, not that Grantaire thought he would, but he did gesture to the seat across from him. “Do you want to sit?” he asked. “We might as well sit together since you’re here early.” 

 

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, sitting down across from him. 

 

Jules turned to grab a battered satchel that Grantaire hadn’t noticed before, pulling out books, papers, and a pen that had had obviously had the end gnawed on. It was going to burst ink all over his face or hand soon, Grantaire knew. He’d seen it enough times. Every time he acted like this was the first time a pen had ever exploded on him. It always made Grantaire laugh. It was little things like that that he missed the most when he was trying to find Enjolras. The parts that weren’t about revolution or death, but just about being friends with this wonderful, ridiculous man. 

 

“You shouldn’t chew on your pens,” he said as Jules scribbled a note in unintelligible handwriting. “You’ll end up covered in ink.” 

 

Jules look startled at Grantaire’s words. He looked from the pen to Grantaire, then slowly set it aside, going back to his satchel to pull out a less damaged pen. It wouldn’t stop the inevitable, but it would delay it. “So, where are you from, R?” he asked. “That doesn’t sound like a Chicago accent.” 

 

Grantaire smiled. “No, it’s French. I’m from Paris.” Technically, this body was born in Kenya, but Grantaire would always consider himself French. Whenever a new body was old enough to fend for itself, he’d return to Paris. 

 

Jules smiled politely. Grantaire was impressed that he was trying to make conversation at all. “What brings you here?” he asked. “Job? School? Family?”

 

Grantaire considered. “School,” he decided. He could get into one easy enough. Being born with all of the memories of his previous lifetimes meant that he tended to be mislabeled as a prodigy. This body had two bachelors and a masters already, because he had to do something to keep himself busy and entertained in the years it always took him to find Enjolras, and having education made him more valuable to the Cause when he did find him anyway. “I’m working on my PhD.” 

 

Jules looked a little surprised, which Grantaire tried not to find insulting. “Oh. Wow. What field?” 

 

Grantaire had degrees in art, political science, history, mathematics, language, literature, chemistry, medicine, and military tactics. Of course, he had no proof that any of those degrees were actually his. “Psychology,” he said. That was the focus he’d had in this body. “My thesis is on mob behavior.” 

 

Jules was obviously impressed, and it made warmth flood Grantaire all the way down to his toes. “Next semester is my last for my undergrad,” he said. “Poli-sci.” 

 

Grantaire grinned. “That’s exciting. What are you planning on doing with it?” 

 

Jules shrugged, gesturing around the cafe. “This, I guess. Raise awareness. Change the world.” 

 

Grantaire shook his head. Enjolras always had too big, too vague goals. Whenever he met Enjolras it was like all of his ideals and passions was just a bar of dull metal that he was wildly brandishing around. No finesse. Grantaire was there to help him smith that bar of metal into a gleaming sword. Or… that was the plan, at least. 

 

“Not a very sustainable career path,” he pointed out. 

 

Jules scowled. “Money doesn’t matter to me. Change does.”    
  
“Can’t change anything if you’re starving,” he countered. 

 

“Tell that to Gandhi,” Jules snapped. 

 

Grantaire laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. He would never be able to convince Enjolras to change his nature, but sometimes he had to try. “Alright, alright, Apollo. Don’t bite my head off.” 

 

Jules frowned. “Apollo?” he asked. 

 

Grantaire gestured to his hair. “You’re all… sunny.” 

 

Jules frown morphed into a scowl. “I am not.” 

 

Grantaire grinned. “Whatever you say, Apollo.”

 

Jules huffed, turning his attention away from Grantaire and to his notes. It seemed that his limited supply of polite conversation had run out. That was okay with Grantaire. He pulled out his phone and started looking at apartments for rent in the area and Northwestern’s application process. 

 

He was just looking at one bedroom with plenty of room for his art (which he’d have to move from Paris, damn), when people started filing in, laughing and talking, filling the dim coffee shop with light. Grantaire could only assume that this was Chicago’s Legion for Change, the newest iteration of Les Amis de l’ABC. Occasionally in these groups there were people he thought might be original members, though he couldn’t spot Combeferre or Bahoral the way he could Enjolras. He was pretty sure that last time Feuilly had spent some time with them, though as far as Grantaire knew he was still alive.    
  


The newcomers grabbed their coffees then came to Jules’ table, pulling up extra chairs and tables as needed. A few of them noticed Grantaire and introduced themselves. Grantaire didn’t recognize any of them. Once everyone was seated Jules cleared his throat, and all conversation ended abruptly, their faces turning to their leader.    
  
“Hello everyone,” Jules said. “Thank you for coming. As you can see we have a new person here today. This is R. You can get to know each other in your own time, right now we need to talk about--” 

 

“Sorry I’m late!!!” trilled a musical voice from the doorway, cutting off Jules. Grantaire turned to see a person in a huge neon green sun hat, pink fuzzy earmuffs, paisley rain boots, and a quilted poncho made of of various brightly colored animal pattern fabrics. His whole face lit up. There was only one person who dressed like that. 

 

“Je--” he started to say, but thankfully was cut off by Jules. 

 

“Jehan, we’ve talked about this,” Jules said, and Grantaire’s head whipped around to look at him.  _ Jehan.  _ They were still Jehan? “If you’re late just slip in quietly, don’t interrupt the meeting.” 

 

“Oh, right, sorry,” apparently-still-Jehan said, not looking very sorry. They came over to the table and pulled up a chair next to Grantaire. “Hi,” they whispered as Jules went back to rhapsodizing on homelessness or whatever it was he was currently angry about. “It’s good to see you again, Grantaire. I’ve missed you.” 

 


	4. Jehan: ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's where we stand right now, folks. 
> 
> I told you that I would be updating weekly, but since this thing is practically writing itself and I'm several chapters ahead of where I thought I'd be, it might be more like bi-weekly. I'm going to try to make my schedule that you'll get new chapters on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, but, you know, life might happen. 
> 
> Just so you know, I don't have a beta reader, so any issues in grammar/spelling are my own. 
> 
> Enjoy this Jehan filled chapter, see you back here on Tuesday.

“What--” Grantaire started to say, but he was cut off by Jehan putting a finger to his lips. They were wearing orange fingerless gloves. 

 

“Shh, Enjolras is talking. He’ll get mad if he sees us having a side conversation.” They winked, then turned to look at Jules, the picture of innocent attentiveness. 

 

Grantaire was reeling. Jehan remembered him. Jehan remembered  _ Enjolras _ . He hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in almost two hundred years, and there Jehan was using it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Jules was speaking, but Grantaire had no idea what he was saying. He stared at Jehan, probably looking like an idiot with his mouth slightly agape. 

 

This Jehan’s body was much younger than anyone else at the meeting, he realized. Perhaps fourteen or fifteen. When they took off the sunhat and earmuffs Grantaire saw that they had shoulder-length, razor-straight black hair with rainbow highlights. They wore purple colored contacts and green eyeshadow all the way up to their drawn on eyebrows, which were at least an inch higher than where their real eyebrows had obviously been shaved off. 

 

He shook his head fondly. If Jehan had been a little eccentric in the 1830s, they were a hot mess now. 

 

Sooner than he had expected, the meeting ended, though some of the members stuck around to socialize afterwards. Jules was not one of those members. He was out the door as soon as the last debate was resolved, obviously off to his next world saving activity. Grantaire watched him go a little regretfully, but he had more important things to do than stalk Jules around Chicago.    
  
He turned to Jehan. “Let’s go somewhere else,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. 

 

“Okay!” Jehan said, standing and waving to the remaining members of the Legion with a couple little bounces. “Bye guys!” they called cheerfully. 

 

The members all grinned and chorused their goodbyes, one girl reaching over to give them a one armed hug. “Bye, squirt,” she said fondly. 

 

“I am immeasurably older than you,” Jehan replied in the same tone. 

 

She laughed. “I know, squirt. Be safe and don’t forget to do your homework.” 

 

Jehan turned to Grantaire with a big smile. “Okay, I’m ready to go. My mom’s making spaghetti for dinner, do you want to come over?” 

 

“Your… what?” Grantaire asked, confused. 

 

“My mom, she’s making spaghetti,” Jehan repeated excitedly, leading Grantaire out of the coffee shop and down the street as they put their hat and earmuffs back on. “I mean, it’s not the best spaghetti in the word, she always overcooks the noodles and the sauce is from a jar, but I still like it.” 

 

Grantaire followed them, trying to understand. “So… you remember me? You’re Jehan, like Jean Prouvaire who I knew in 1832 and who died on the barricade?” 

 

Jehan nodded, wincing a little. “That sucked, didn’t it? I hate painful deaths. I usually try to live to old age, but Enjolras really convinced me that we could make it.” They sighed sadly. “He’s good at that, isn’t he?” 

 

“Yeah… he is. So, what, you started living new lives after that one too?” 

 

Jehan laughed, shaking their head. “Oh, no. I’m waaaaaaaay older than that. At least seven thousand years, maybe more. My memory starts to get a little foggy at a certain point, and before written language I had no way to document what I was doing.” They turned to walk backwards, a skip in their step. “I’m the oldest Rememberer I’ve ever met.” 

 

Grantaire frowned. “What’s a rememberer?” he asked. 

 

Jehan shook their head. “It’s a  _ Rememberer _ . You have to pronounce the capital letter.” They laughed, turning to face forward again. “But it’s pretty self explanatory. A Rememberer is someone who remembers past lives.”    
  
“So… what, we’re not the only people who remember?” Grantaire asked. “Or, um, Remember?” 

 

Jehan laughed again. “Of course not! It’s not a majority, but lots of people are Rememberers. Sometimes they Remember just bits and pieces, flashes of emotion and images, people that they’ve never met in this lifetime. Sometimes they Remember everything. And some people are born Remembering while others Remember slowly and have to really work to Remember.” They frowned, sticking their tongue out. “Remember, Remembering, Rememberer, Remember, Remembering, Rememberer... You know when you say a word so much it doesn’t sound like a word anymore?”

 

Grantaire sighed. “Focus, Jehan.” 

 

Jehan shook their head like a very colorful dog dislodging water from its ears. “Right. Sorry. As far as I can tell partial Rememberers who need to work to Remember are the most common, and full Remembers who just pop out of the womb Remembering are the least common.” 

 

“And you are?”

 

“A born full Rememberer. I die and then bam! I wake up a baby.” They groaned dramatically. “Baby brains are the  _ worst _ . You can Remember, but like, your physical brain really is not able to deal with you knowing that much information, so you just always feel like you forgot something and you can’t figure out what it is. But, you know, everyone thinks you’re cute and you get a lot of attention, so that’s nice.” 

 

Grantaire nodded slowly. He knew exactly what Jehan meant. Well, except for the part where it was nice to be cooed at and snuggled. He was pretty sure he was always a very angry looking baby. “So, you Remember, but you still live with that body’s mother?” 

 

Jehan frowned. “‘That body’?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “It’s not your original.” 

 

Jehan looked down, brow furrowed. “...I can’t even remember what my original body looked like. I’ve had so many of them. If I decided that one was the right one, and all the others were wrong, I think I’d be very unhappy. This is just my body to me.” They looked up at Grantaire thoughtfully. “Do you not think of that as your body?” they asked. 

 

Slowly, Grantaire shook his head. “No. This is… I still think of the first one I Remember having as my real body, and these are like… ones I’ve stolen or something.” 

 

Jehan shook their head firmly. “You didn’t steal it from anyone. It’s your body and it’s real, and it’s just as much yours as the first body you had.” They sighed softly. “You can’t get… you have to be willing to let things go. If you get too focused on having what you had the first time, then you’ll just be miserable. You have to be willing to change and grow, to take each new life for what it is.” 

  
Grantaire looked at his feet. He was… definitely not doing that. He was holding on to the first life as hard as he could. Holding on to Enjolras. 

 

“You recognized me,” he said, wanting to change the subject. “You just walked right in and knew it was me.” 

 

Jehan nodded. “I can’t explain it, but I just… I see more than just physical appearance. I always recognize people I’ve met before. It’s like… their mannerisms and personality and just… their soul. I can see all of it and put it together and recognize it the same way I can recognize a face.” 

 

Grantaire slowly nodded. “I… understand. I need to pay more attention, look really closely, but sometimes I think I can recognize people. I’m never sure with anyone but…” he trailed off. 

 

Jehan smiled softly. “Enjolras?” they asked, voice gentle and kind. 

 

Grantaire looked away. If Jehan knew, he didn’t have to confirm it for them. 

 

Jehan sighed. “I’ve seen that before. Rememberers looking for friends or lovers or parents or children. Sometimes it turns out well, but usually…” They shook their head. “That way leads to heartbreak, Grantaire.” 

 

“I’m used to heartbreak,” said Grantaire. 

 

Jehan looked so sad that even their sunhat seemed to droop. “I know.” 

 

They stopped in front of a little house with bikes and toys scattered over the front yard. It seemed homey. Lived in. “This is me,” Jehan said, opening the gate and gesturing for Grantaire to come in. 

 

Grantaire entered slowly. “Do kids live here?” he asked. 

 

Jehan nodded. “Yeah, I have two little brothers. Also an older sister, but she’s in college.” 

 

“And you… you just live here. With this family?” 

 

Jehan nodded, taking the front steps two at a time. “Yup. I like having a family, being a kid. People cook for me, I don’t have to think about bills, I don’t need to have a job… Kid school is boring, but I just get myself labeled gifted and go to a college nearby. I’m studying string theory at Northwestern right now. It’s so cool.” They reached into a pocket in their poncho, pulling out a key to unlock the door“Sometimes I don’t get a great family, and I have to go live by myself, but I prefer just… you know. Having a normal life. My family signed up for a kid, they want someone to love, so that’s what they’re going to get.” 

 

Grantaire let that sink in. He stood in the doorway, looking inside of the house without really seeing it. He thought of the families he’d been born to over his lifetimes. How had it felt to them, to have a surly, angry child who was too smart for them to explain and who ran away as soon as he was old enough to survive on his own? Did it make them sad? Did they miss him? He’d never considered how the body’s-- he’d never considered how  _ his _ parents felt before. 

  
He came back to the present as a small, pretty woman with gray-streaked hair up in a bun walked into the living room, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Oh, Jehan, you’re home, lovely. Can you set the table and tell your brothers--” She stopped, noticing Grantaire in the doorway. “Oh, hello, dear. I didn’t know Jehan was bringing a guest. I’m Dr. Yao.” She crossed to the doorway and Grantaire was forced to step into the house properly to shake her hand. “How do you know Jehan?” 

 

“This is Grantaire. We met in France in the early nineteenth century,” said Jehan, sniffing the air. “Did you get garlic bread?”

 

Dr. Yao laughed, hitting Jehan with her dish towel. “I did, and you’re not getting any unless you tell your brothers to stop playing video games and come down to eat.” 

 

“The television is a marvelous invention that changed life for the better,” Jehan said as they headed upstairs. “When I saw a talkie for the first time--” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, it was magical and you couldn’t believe you’d lived to see the day, I know. Tell them to wash their hands.” 

 

Jehan laughed and disappeared up the stairs. 

 

Dr. Yao turned to Grantaire with a little smile. “So how did you two actually meet?” she asked. 

 

Grantaire shrugged. “Save The World Club.” It was technically true, and he didn’t think telling this woman that all the nonsense her child was constantly spouting was actually true would be good for her sanity. 

 

Dr. Yao smiled. “Oh, that group is such a positive influence on them. I’m so glad they have friends there. I worried when I sent them off to college so young that it would be hard for them to make friends, but that’s never been the case. My little social butterfly.” 

 

Grantaire smiled. “They’ve always been easy to like.”    
  
Jehan came down the stairs, poncho, hat, and rainboots abandoned for what Jehan apparently thought was more appropriate dinner wear: a tie dyed muumuu about four sizes too large cinched at the waist with a sequined belly dancer sash and what looked like just a whole taxidermied robin glued onto a barrette in their hair. At their heels were two twin boys around eight. 

 

Jehan walked up to Grantaire and took his hand, tugging him into the kitchen. “Help me set the table,” they said. 

 

Once again, Grantaire was a little overwhelmed by Jehan’s home. There were pictures of Jehan’s family covering the fridge, Jehan identifiable at any age by their fashion sense. Jehan grinned a little at Grantaire as he studied a picture of Jehan as a baby wearing a huge pair of bug-eyed sunglasses, a bright magenta onesie, and a little baby tutu in electric blue. 

 

“I cried whenever they tried to put me in something boring,” they explained. “When you can’t dress yourself or speak, you make do with the tools at your disposal.” 

 

Grantaire smiled, taking a stack of dishes when Jehan offered them to him. “You still go by Jehan. Your parents didn’t name you that, did they?” 

 

Jehan shook their head. “No, but luckily they let me change it. Legally and everything. It’s hard for me to think of myself using different names from life to life, and anyway the ones my parents give me are usually too gendered for my tastes.” 

 

“Are you always nonbinary?” 

 

“Always,” Jehan agreed. “How could I not be?” 

 

That was a good point. Grantaire had been in a female body once and it had sucked. He was male, that was an essential fact that remained with him, no matter what body he was in. He imagined it was the same for Jehan. You couldn’t ask Jehan to be comfortable being male or female any more than you could ask them to be comfortable dressed like a normal person. 

 

Once the table was set, the overcooked noodles, spaghetti sauce from a jar, and store bought garlic bread all sitting in mismatched serving dishes that looked like they were handmade, Jehan called in their family. Apparently their father had just gotten home from work, and he smiled at Jehan as he passed on his way to the table, deftly unclipping the taxidermied bird from their hair and setting on the counter. 

 

“No dead things at the table,” he said in a soft voice.    
  
“There’s meat in the spaghetti sauce,” Jehan pointed out, pouting a little. 

 

“No dead things that have eyes at the table,” Jehan’s father rephrased without batting an eye. 

 

Jehan sighed and sat, pulling out a chair next to them for Grantaire. Jehan’s father nodded to him in greeting, seemingly needing no explanation as to why Grantaire was at his table.    
  
Dr. Yao went to the fridge, humming to herself. “What do you want to drink, Grantaire? We have wine, if you want a glass?” 

 

“Water, please,” Grantaire said hurriedly, hands clenching in his lap. “I don’t drink.” 

 

Jehan looked over at him, pleasantly surprised. They smiled softly, reaching over to squeeze Grantaire’s hand. “Good job,” they whispered. 

 

Grantaire gave a tight smile back. It was still hard. This body had never had a drop of alcohol, but he still craved the release of it. Sometimes, at his lowest, when he was so overwhelmed by the memories of all the lives he had lived and all the deaths he had died that he couldn’t breathe, he thought that if he drank enough he would forget all of it and finally be free. 

 

But he didn’t. It had been one hundred and seven years, four months, and eleven days since his last drink. They didn’t have a chip for that long at AA, but Grantaire held that time close to his heart. 

 

Dr. Yao, seeming to sense the tension, got water for everyone, then sat down at the table. 

 

Dinner was nice. Grantaire hadn’t eaten with a family in a long time. Jehan’s little brothers bickered about the video game they’d been playing. Dr. and Mr. Yao talked about work (Dr. Yao was a history professor, something Grantaire could tell Jehan found endlessly amusing, and Mr. Yao owned a pottery studio, which explained the handmade dishes). Jehan regaled them all with a hilarious story of a squirrel that had stolen their lunch, despite the fact that they were eating  _ inside _ . They all seemed to know that Grantaire wanted to listen more than talk, and they let him. 

 

After dinner was over and Dr. Yao had insisted that Grantaire did not have to help clean up, Jehan walked him out. 

 

“How did you find Enjolras?” Grantaire asked as they stood on the front porch and waited for Grantaire’s cab back to the airport. He needed to return to Paris for a few days so that he could move his things. 

 

Jehan shrugged. “I wasn’t looking for him. I just saw him one day. And I remembered how fun being part of Les Amis was, so I thought I’d see what he was doing this time.” 

 

“Fun?” Grantaire asked. “Jehan, we died.” 

 

Jehan nodded. “I know. That part wasn’t fun. But… the rest of it. We were such good friends, you know? And we were so excited and hopeful and… alive. That’s what I try to remember. We were all so alive.” 

 

Grantaire’s cab pulled up in front of the house and Jehan gave Grantaire a tight hug in farewell.

 

Grantaire thought about their words all the way back to Paris. 

 


	5. Chicago.

Grantaire dropped the last box as soon as he was through the door, kicking it closed behind him and sliding down to the floor. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and knuckling over them.

 

He hated moving. He always had to take a good long look at how much shit he had collected over the course of almost two hundred years. He’d had a thirty minute argument with himself about whether a take out menu from a restaurant in Dublin that had closed in 1970 was worth taking halfway around the world. 

 

(It, like most of the junk that he’d been unable to get rid off, now sat in a storage unit in Paris that he’d had since 1908.) 

 

Those things that he had been able to justify moving to another continent were now sitting in the one bedroom apartment he had rented in the South Side, only a couple of blocks away from where Les A-- from where the Legion met. Grantaire shook his head. He’d have to talk to Jules about that name. It was horrible. At least Les Amis hadn’t sounded like a bad superhero team. 

 

His stomach growled and he groaned again, slowly keeling over until he was laying down. He couldn’t see the kitchen box, and anyway he hadn’t been grocery shopping yet. 

 

He pulled out his phone, looking for food near him, and found a diner that looked fairly decent nearby. He clambered to his feet and pulled on his coat. 

 

Outside it had started snowing in big, fat flakes. Grantaire smiled softly. It was already beginning to stick, covering the grime of the neighborhood with pure white. Grantaire would never love anywhere like he loved Paris, but this wasn’t bad. 

 

He walked to the diner, which smelled invitingly of salt and grease. When he walked in he was told to sit wherever, and he was about to take a seat at a table by the door when he noticed a flash of blond hair in a booth near the back.    
  
Jules was writing something on an ancient laptop, frowning slightly as his thin fingers jabbed the keys, rapid fire. There was a burger and fries sitting at his elbow, a single bite taken out of the burger, the fries still piled high. Grantaire sighed, shaking his head. 

 

He went over to the booth, sliding into the seat opposite Jules. “Hey, Apollo, right? From Save The World Club?” 

 

Jules looked up, scowling when he recognized him. “It’s  _ Jules _ from  _ Chicago’s Legion for Change _ ,” he said. 

 

“Yeah, about that name, Apollo--”    
  
“ _ Jules _ .” 

 

“--It’s really aggressive,” Grantaire continued as though Jules hadn’t interrupted. “And cheesy. Have you considered something like… I don’t know. Chicago’s Friends of The People?” 

 

Jules glared. “I like the Legion for Change. It’s assertive. We’re not here to sing Kumbaya and have bake sales.” 

 

“Of course you’re not. You look like you don’t even know how to turn an oven on.” 

 

Jules looked insulted. “I know how to turn an oven on. You turn the little knob.” 

 

Grantaire blinked at him for a moment, then laughed. Fuck, he’d missed him. “I guess you’re right. Do you know how to eat too?” He pointed to the plate of uneaten food. “That’s definitely gone cold by now, and fries aren’t good cold.” 

 

“They’re fine cold,” Jules snapped, pulling the plate closer to himself, almost defensive. “I’m not hungry right now, so I’m saving them for later.” 

 

Jules’ stomach growled loudly. Jules looked down like he’d never faced a betrayal like this before. He looked up at Grantaire, who raised an eyebrow, and he sighed. “Fine. I got distracted.” He picked up a fry and took a bite. Grantaire could see him force himself not to react to the grossness of a cold fry. 

 

Grantaire grinned, looking down at the menu. The waitress came over and he ordered a burger and fries for himself, and another plate of fries for Jules. Jules looked like he wanted to protest, but it was clear that he didn’t want to eat cold fries more. 

 

“This is so wasteful,” he said once the waitress had left with their order. “Do you know how much perfectly good food we throw away every day?” 

 

“Shut up, Apollo,” Grantaire said cheerfully. 

 

Jules sat back, crossing his arms. “I don’t like it when you call me that,” he said, petulant. 

 

“I know,” Grantaire said. But if he couldn’t call Jules Enjolras, Apollo was the next best thing. 

 

Jules huffed and went back to assaulting his computer keyboard. He ate his burger in between obviously impassioned sentences. 

 

“What are you working on?” Grantaire asked, watching with a little smile. 

 

“Homework,” Jules said. “I’m writing an essay about how saying something good can’t happen because human nature is intrinsically bad is a way for lazy people to get away with keeping a flawed system in place” 

 

“Uh huh,” Grantaire said, smirking. “And what was the assignment?” 

 

Jules looked up at him stonily before admitting, “We were supposed to write about trickle down economics.” 

 

Grantaire chuckled. “Of course you were. Let me guess the thought process… ‘trickle down economics’ becomes ‘trickle down economics doesn’t actually work’ becomes ‘capitalism is awful’ becomes ‘communism is better than capitalism’ becomes ‘people say communism can’t work because of human nature’ becomes ‘saying that human nature is bad means that we can get away with bad things because we say that they can’t change.’”

 

Jules looked at Grantaire with wide eyes, speechless. Grantaire counted that as a win. “Um… yes. That was exactly the process.” 

 

Grantaire nodded, taking a bite of his burger as he thought about that. “Well, it sounds like your argument states that communism can work.” 

 

“It can work,” Jules said.   
  
“No, it can’t,” Grantaire said, gesturing sharply with a fry. He’d seen first hand just how little it worked. “It’s true, communism can’t work because of human nature. It gives too much power to the people who decide what equal shares mean. In the same vein, capitalism and trickle down economics don’t really work because of human nature. Humans are greedy.” 

 

Jules frowned. “But just saying that allows us to accept that we can’t change anything. It gives us permission to be apathetic.” 

 

“And ignoring that means that we will continue building structures that are doomed to fail,” Grantaire countered. “The solution isn’t as black and white as you’re making it, Apollo. What we have to do is acknowledge the fallible nature of humans so that we can build a system that checks it.” 

 

Jules stared at him for a moment. “Yeah that’s… that’s true,” he said finally. “I… think I need to rethink my essay.” He closed his laptop, putting it back in his satchel.    
  
The waitress brought their food and Jules set in on his fries. Grantaire was pleased. This Enjolras was far too skinny. Grantaire subtly ordered a milkshake too, pointing at the menu item and then at Jules before offering a thumbs up. The waitress grinned, returning his thumbs up, and went to the back. 

 

Jules swallowed a mouthful of fries before returning his attention to Grantaire. “So,” he said. “How’s your thesis going?” 

 

Grantaire shrugged. He’d been accepted into Northwestern even though the deadline had passed. He’d be starting in the spring. Fake prodigy perks. “It’s still in the planning phase. I want to talk about how the mob acts in times when they are called to violent rebellion.” He wanted to understand why they had they not come when Enjolras had called them that first time.

 

Jules nodded. “Makes sense. You’re French.” 

 

Grantaire chuckled. “We are very good at violent rebellion.” 

 

“It’s noble, I think,” Jules said. “Change can’t always be made peacefully. Sometimes change has to be bought with blood.” 

 

_ Red, the blood of angry men.  _

 

_ The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France.  _

 

_ A pool of red blood around him as he bled out. The edge of the red flag through the open window as his vision slowly went dark.  _

 

Grantaire swallowed hard. “Sometimes, yes.” 

 

_ Sometimes all that blood means nothing at all.  _

 

Jules frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice sounded very young.

 

_ God, he’s so young. He’ll always be so young. He’ll never grow up. I’ll never be able to save him.  _

 

“Fine,” Grantaire said.

 

“You don’t look fine,” Jules said, sounding worried. 

 

Grantaire almost laughed. Enjolras, worried about him. “I am, Apollo. Just… some bad memories.” 

 

Jules looked a little conflicted, but dropped it. Enjolras felt so deeply for the whole world, but for individuals… his skill was lacking. Grantaire didn’t hold that against him. It was just who he was. 

 

They waitress came back to the table, setting down a chocolate milkshake in front of Jules. “There you are, honey,” she said with a big smile. 

 

Jules looked at it, confused, then up at the waitress. “I didn’t order this,” he said. 

 

The waitress glanced over at Grantaire, and Jules looked at him, aghast. “You shouldn’t be wasting your money like that, R,” he said. 

 

“Oh hush now,” the waitress said before Grantaire could reply. “Let your boyfriend buy you something sweet. Ungratefulness is so unattractive, and you definitely want to be attractive for a stud like him,” she winked at Grantaire. 

 

Grantaire and Jules both stared at the waitress, dumbfounded.

 

“There is… a lot to unpack there,” Jules said. 

 

“Yeah, I’ll say,” said Grantaire. Him, Jules’s boyfriend? Jules, unattractive? Him, a  _ stud? _

 

The waitress sighed and flapped her hand. “Drink your damn milkshake,” she said irritably, walking away. 

 

Grantaire and Jules stared after her. Finally, they looked back at each other. There was a long, heavy moment of silence. 

 

Then, sometimes amazing started to happen. Jules started  _ laughing _ . It was horrible, honking and loud and with the occasional  _ snort _ . It was the best thing Grantaire had ever heard.

 

“Oh my God,” Grantaire said, Jules’ laughter setting him off. “Why do you sound like that?” 

 

“Shut up,” Jules said, trying to cover his mouth to stop the laughter. The effect was just more snorting. 

 

“Oh  _ darling, _ ” Grantaire said, imitating the woman’s accent. “I do  _ declare _ your ungratefulness is just so  _ ugly _ to me.” 

 

Jules snorted some more, burying his head in his hands. 

 

“If only you would  _ thank me _ for this two dollar milkshake that definitely came out of a box I might be able to  _ stand _ the sight of your face again, but now you look like blond Danny DeVito.” 

  
Jules’ shoulders were shaking. He was barely making noise anymore, just this high pitched wheezing that was even better than the snorting. 

 

“For I, a  _ total fucking stud, _ ” he let the words drip with innuendo, “just need my manliness to be reaffirmed by you telling me how  _ grateful  _ you are to me.” 

 

“ _ Stop, _ ” Jules gasped, holding out his hand. “Please, I’m going to suffocate.” 

 

Grantaire was beaming as Jules managed to sit up, his face red and his eyes wet from laughing. Grantaire felt lighter than air. 

 

“Thank you,” Jules said finally, wiping his eyes. 

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You don’t actually have to thank me for the milkshake, Apollo. I don’t care.” 

 

“I know,” said Jules. “But I haven’t laughed that hard in… I don’t know how long.” 

 

Neither did Grantaire. Enjolras had always been so serious. He’d never heard more than a quiet chuckle from him. The fact that he’d just made Jules laugh like that… Grantaire wouldn’t have even been able to describe how he felt. 

 

“I like your laugh,” Grantaire said, grinning. 

 

“Ew, why?” asked Jules, wrinkling his nose. “It’s so weird.” 

 

“I know,” Grantaire said. “That’s why I like it so much. You laugh like no one’s watching.” 

 

Enjolras looked surprised by that. Slowly, a blush rose in his cheeks. “Thank you,” he said again.    
  


“You’re welcome,” Grantaire replied. 

 

He meant it. He really, really meant it. 

 

He pointed at Jules’ satchel. “Now, laptop back out. Let’s figure out how to get you an A on that paper.” 

 

Jules grinned and nodded, pulling out his laptop as he took a long sip of his milkshake. 


	6. Differences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains discussion of Grantaire's alcoholism.

Every Enjolras was different.

 

Not just in the various faces and bodies, but in their mannerisms. Many things were consistent from one Enjolras to another, but sometimes an Enjolras would act in a manner that was wholly unpredictable, and Grantaire would have to remember that both nature and nurture influenced how he behaved. His passion was sometimes burning and sometimes cold. He could be the type to scream his anger to the sky or contain in a soft, deadly murmur. Sometimes he was devoutly religious, and sometimes his only alliance was to logic. He could be careless or thoughtful, kind or cruel, forgiving or vengeful.

 

Jules was the softest Enjolras that Grantaire had ever met. He smiled easier. He laughed easier. Once, Grantaire even saw him hug Jehan, though it was short and awkward. Jehan hadn’t stopped smiling for a week. He still got angry easily and had a difficulty seeing anything but the big picture, but he came to meetings in big soft sweaters as winter started to melt into spring, sitting next to the other members of the Legion and telling them earnestly about how the leaves were on the trees now, like the mere fact that the seasons were changing made the whole world worth saving in his eyes.

 

Jules also befriended Grantaire faster than any other Enjolras had. The diner became a regular meeting place for them and they sat over greasy food until closing more often than not, talking about anything and everything.

 

Grantaire learned that Jules had been raised in a comfortably middle class home by a Jewish lesbian couple. His parents were his biggest supporters. They had encouraged his activism from a very young age. Jules smiled fondly as he told Grantaire the story of the first protest he could remember attending, sitting on his ima’s shoulders and waving a tiny sign calling for justice in Palestine. His parents had never thought him too young to understand injustice, and he remembered sitting on his mom’s lap when he was six as she explained why she and his ima weren’t married yet. He remembered crying angry tears, unable to comprehend how someone could hate the two people he loved most in the world just for loving each other.

 

As he told the story he held out his hands, lost in the memory. “She took my face in her hands and she looked me in the eyes. She said, ‘Jules, prejudice is just an emotion, and emotions change. You can change how people feel. You can take all that hate they have inside of them, and you can turn it into love.’” He let his hands drop, shaking his head. “It shaped my whole life.”

 

Grantaire thought that this moment was what made Jules different from every other Enjolras. Enjolras’s passion for change usually grew out of an anger inside of him so great that it consumed him. The source of Jules’ passion was a deep wellspring of love.

 

Grantaire wondered if he could always be like that, given the right environment. It made him hopeful, and every day Grantaire thanked whoever was out there for Jules’ parents.

 

One day Grantaire asked Jules if he wanted to meet at the diner, and Jules told him that he couldn’t because he had to go to synagogue. Grantaire, curious, had asked if it was okay if he tagged along.

  
The synagogue Jules attended was small but full of light and a general air of happiness. The rabbi was a tall woman who seemed to always be on the brink of laughter. Jules didn’t stop smiling from the moment they walked in, calling out a joyful “Shabbat shalom!” to everyone he passed.

 

Grantaire hadn’t been to a religious service since he was a child for the first time, and from what he remembered of Mass it was hot and boring and involved a lot of elbowing from his mother. This was different. It was full of singing and laughter, even dancing. Jules, he discovered, had a beautifully clear tenor that reminded him so strongly of the first Enjolras that it brought tears to his eyes. He closed them tightly, listening to Jules’s voice form the words in the unfamiliar language, carrying over the other members of the congregation, going all the way up to the rafters, all the way up to God.

 

Though it had been a long, long time since Grantaire had prayed, he prayed then that his Apollo would feel this again, that this joy would follow him into his next life.

 

After the service there was a big meal that Jules dragged him to. Grantaire had never seen him take this much time to relax, and he remarked on it as Jules looked for a table.

 

“It’s part of the observance,” Jules said distractedly. “I don’t rest for the entire Sabbath, I think that God understands that I have important work to do, but from sundown on Friday until I go to sleep, I don’t do any work.”

 

Grantaire was, frankly, amazed. An Enjolras who rested, who took a moment to breathe and enjoy life, even if it was only for a few hours a week? Grantaire had never seen that before. “I think that’s nice,” he said, voice a little strangled.

 

Jules made a pleased sound as he spotted a table with two chairs open, rushing over to snag them. Grantaire made to follow him, then noticed what was on the table. What was on every table in this room and that he hadn’t noticed at first.

 

Wine.

 

There were two or three bottles of red wine on every table, and Enjolras was sitting down to pour two cups, and Grantaire wanted it. God, he wanted the familiarity of Enjolras’s singing and the haze of wine.

 

He turned around and practically sprinted out, away from the temptation, away from the need. Fuck, over a hundred years he still needed it like oxygen.

  
Grantaire ran for several blocks, stopping when he reached a small park. He leaned back against a tree, trying to take deep breaths, trying to name all of the things he saw, trying to notice every part of his body from his toes up, trying all of those stupid grounding exercises he’d learned to keep the temptation at bay.

 

He looked up when he heard footsteps, and was surprised to see Jules running up to him.

 

“R,” he panted, skidding to a haunt. “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

Grantaire shook his head. He couldn’t tell this Enjolras. Not Jules, who was so good and kind. Grantaire had worked so hard to be the best version of himself that he could be. He’d worked so hard to get Jules to trust him. He couldn’t let Jules know how fucked up he was.

 

Jules sighed, going to lean against the tree next to Grantaire, their shoulders touching. “I thought we were friends,” he said softly. “Can’t you trust me?”

 

Grantaire groaned, his head thunking back against the trunk of the tree. The manipulating bastard. “I don’t think you’d want to be friends with me if you knew.” Enjolras never liked Grantaire’s drinking. It was one of the great flaws in his being, and unlike the cynicism and skepticism he couldn’t reshape it into something better.

 

“Bullshit,” Jules said, and Grantaire looked over at him, a little shocked. “R, I’ve only known you for a little while, but I know that it would take a lot for me to stop being your friend.”

 

Grantaire stared at him. He was so different. So much softer. It was going to hurt so much to see this Enjolras die. Finally he said, “I’m an alcoholic.”

 

For a long moment Jules looked at him, like he was waiting. “And?” he finally asked.

 

Grantaire gaped at him. “ _And?_ There’s no _and_ , Apollo, I’m an _alcoholic_. I can’t even look at alcohol without wanting to drink until I can’t remember my own name. I used to drink wine like it was water. Those bottles on the tables? I could’ve put away five of them, no problem.” He was breathing heavily, fists closed into tight fists, waiting for a fight.

 

“But you didn’t,” Jules said gently.

 

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

 

“You wanted to, but you didn’t. I feel like you see that as a weakness, but it’s not. It’s a strength. You walked into a room full of alcohol, and you walked out stone cold sober. That’s an accomplishment to be proud of, not ashamed. I’m certainly proud of you.”

 

There was something wet on Grantaire’s face. He slowly brought his hand up to touch it. Tears. He was crying. “I… I…”

 

_He’s proud of me._

 

“I don’t deserve your pride,” he said, looking down.

 

Jules rolled his eyes and suddenly he was pulling Grantaire into a hug so tight it was almost painful. Grantaire felt all of the shattered pieces of him pressed back into their places by it.

 

“You do,” Jules said fiercely. “You deserve it.”

 

Grantaire looked down at Jules, who looked back up at him fiercely, daring him to argue. He was so different, this Enjolras. Grantaire liked the differences.

 

He wrapped his arms around Jules’ delicate body, hugging him back. He had thought that Jules was the softest Enjolras he’d ever met. Now he saw the truth.

 

He was the strongest.


	7. Summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm giving you this chapter early because it's about Pride. For the people whose Prides are this weekend, I hope you have/had a great time. For the people who can't go to Pride yet or don't have a Pride in their city, you are still valid and part of the community. 
> 
> I love you all, thank you for reading this story. Enjoy some sexy happy Jules/Enjolras. 
> 
> (Also, notice that the rating of this story has now changed because this is a little bit on the NSFW side and I wanted to be safe)

Spring came and went. Grantaire’s thesis was starting to take shape. Jules graduated and all of the members of the Legion went to the ceremony, making an inappropriate amount of noise when he crossed the stage to take his diploma. Grantaire didn’t go to his graduation party, which he knew would have copious amounts of drinking. To make up for his absence, he bought Jules a huge slice of pie the next day at the diner. Jules made them split it. The waitress who thought they were dating rolled her eyes so hard that Grantaire was worried she was going to strain something. 

 

Spring left and summer rolled in like a pack of hungry dogs. The city was oppressively hot. As the temperature climbed, Grantaire’s mood plummeted. Summer was the worst time of year for him, reminding him of those last months before the barricades rose. On the first day of June he went to the meeting at the cafe with his head bowed, his face like a stormcloud. In six days it would be the anniversary of the first death. He felt sick. 

 

He was so lost in the past that he didn’t see the spray of rainbow confetti coming when he opened the door. 

 

“What--” he said, jerking back. When he looked up he saw Jehan, practically vibrating with excitement and dressed in a lumpy hot pink knitted scarf, a bright yellow crop top reading  _ Genderphopic, _ and turquoise bell bottoms. The look would almost be tasteful if they weren’t also wearing a purple and yellow plaid cowboy hat (How did they even get one of those? They had to have made it themselves) with about fifteen mini rainbow flags and the head of a lawn flamingo sticking out of of the top.

 

“Happy Pride Month!!!” Jehan exclaimed, throwing their arms around him in a tight hug. “Omigosh I’m so excited! Chicago Pride is so much fun, you’re going to love it!!!” 

 

“Jehan, I don’t celebrate Pride,” Grantaire said, trying to escape the hug. He wasn’t in the mood for this much happiness.

 

Jehan looked horrified by the meer idea. “Like hell you don’t,” they said, taking his arm in a surprisingly strong grip and marching him back to where the members of the Legion were busily working. 

 

Jules looked up from where he was putting together a packet of papers. When he saw Grantaire approaching he smiled, looking relieved. “R, thank God you’re here. We need designs for the t-shirts we’re wearing at the parade and selling at our booth after, but our usual graphic designer backed out. You mentioned you were good at art?” 

 

Grantaire frowned. “Um, yeah, traditional art, not graphic design…” 

 

“Can you make us something?” Jules asked, looking slightly desperate. “I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it’s Pride themed and not clip art.” 

 

Grantaire couldn’t say no to him. “I guess... What’s the booth for?” 

 

“Safety for queer people,” Jules said, handing him the project he’d been working on. “This is the mockup of the pamphlet we’re handing out. We also have a trivia game that people can play to win prizes. Pens and stress balls with our name on it, that sort of thing.” He pointed over to where the other members were working on making a jeopardy board with categories like “Dealing With Police” and “Self Defense” and “Escaping Unsafe Environments.”  

 

It was… actually a pretty cool idea. And if Jules was going to be protesting anywhere, Grantaire had to be at his side. Just in case. 

 

He sighed. “You have something I can draw with?” he asked, sitting down and grabbing a blank piece of paper. Enjolras handed him a box full of sharpies and Grantaire got to work. 

 

***

 

Though Grantaire definitely wasn’t feeling the Pride spirit, at least preparing for it with the Legion kept his mind occupied. But even with the distraction, when the fifth of June came he locked the door of his apartment, sitting down in the dark to let the grief consume him until the days of the rebellion ended. 

 

He was not expecting the knock on his door, or to find Jehan waiting on the other side with a carton of ice cream, dressed more sedately than Grantaire had ever seen them in a black t-shirt and jeans. 

 

The two of them sat on Grantaire’s living room floor, talking for hour upon hour in soft French about the people they had lost that day. 

 

Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Bahorel. Joly. Bossuet. Feuilly. Eponine. Gavroche. 

 

Grantaire found himself laughing just as much as he wept as they spoke, Jehan helping guide him back to memories of their lives instead of their deaths. With Jehan’s help he was able to remember the laughter and comradery and hope that had made the Musain such a beacon of light. 

 

When the time that Grantaire and Enjolras had died came, Jehan held Grantaire as he sobbed uncontrollably for his Apollo. 

 

“I know,” they said softly, rocking him like a child. “I know, Grantaire.”

 

***

 

On the day of Pride fest Grantaire wore one of the shirts that he had designed for the Legion, the design sleek and a little dangerous. The shirt was steel gray with black lettering that looked like it had been sliced horizontally, revealing a rainbow stripe. On the front it simply read  _ Act Out _ , and on the back it had the group’s name written over the shoulders _.  _ When Jules had seen the design he’d given Grantaire a hug. It was more of the awkward brand that he normally managed than the deep, live reaffirming one that he’d given Grantaire after the incident at his synagogue, but it still left Grantaire grinning for hours afterward. 

 

The parade started uptown, and the people who were marching were all bunched up in groups before the starting point, talking and laughing. It didn’t take long for Grantaire to find the Legion, feeling a little nervous as he greeted them. Most of the members were wearing some pride gear in addition to their shirts, and Jehan of course had so many rainbows on their body that Grantaire couldn’t even manage to look at them directly for long enough to determine what they were wearing (though he was pretty sure those ruffled petticoats didn’t usually go on your head…)

 

For once in his life, Jules was almost late, and Grantaire heard him rush over while he was being talked into putting on a rainbow bandana by Jehan. Once the bandana was on, he turned to say hi to Jules, and his mouth went dry. 

 

Jules had cut his t-shirt into a crop top, showing off the pale expanse of his stomach. He wore a pair of very short shorts and white knee high socks with rainbow bands at the top. His hair was loose and soft, a section braided with rainbow ribbon. He was wearing eyeliner. 

 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, grinning hugely at Grantaire. “Ima wanted me to wear those rainbow fishnets. I love her and I support people wearing whatever they like, but I think those things are hideous.”

 

Jehan nodded gravely in agreement.  

 

“Um…” was all Grantaire could manage. His head felt like it was full of cotton balls. 

 

“R?” Jules asked, waving his hand in front of Grantaire’s face. “Are you alright?” 

 

Here was the thing. Grantaire knew that Jules was going to Pride. He knew that Jules had two moms and was passionate about social justice. But Grantaire had never thought that he’d see Jules, see  _ Enjolras _ , dressed like this. 

 

“If you’re, um, doing the Pride gear for your moms, shouldn’t you wear what they want?” he managed to say. 

 

Jules frowned. “For my moms?” 

 

“Yeah. You know. For being an ally and stuff for them.” 

 

Behind him, someone snickered. 

 

Jules looked confused. “An… ally? You look at this?” he gestured to himself, to all the skin on display. “And think ‘yeah, that’s an ally.’”

 

Grantaire felt like he was missing something. “...Yes?” 

 

Jules groaned. “R, have we seriously been friends for almost half a year and you didn’t realize I was gay?” 

 

Grantaire just gaped at him. “You’re what?” 

 

More people were laughing now. 

 

“I’m gay, R,” Jules said. Slowly, like he was talking to a child. “Queer. Bent. Homosexual. I enjoy passionate lovemaking with those of the male persuasion.” 

 

Grantaire was shocked. “I thought you were asexual or something,” he said. Sure, he’d always known that Enjolras didn’t enjoy the company of women, but he didn’t enjoy the company of men either. In all of the years Grantaire had known Enjolras, he had never shown evidence of having any sort of sexual or romantic relationship. Had he hid this from Grantaire? Or was it only the supportive environment that Jules had been raised in that made him realize this about himself? 

 

Jules chuckled, shaking his head. He seemed… relieved, almost. Though Grantaire couldn’t imagine why. “No, I’m not. It’s just not as loud about my sexuality as some people are. But I thought you realized. I thought you--” he cut himself off. 

 

Grantaire could imagine what he was going to say: _ I thought you were smarter than that _ . He should have been, but this was one of those things that he had never seen coming. He tried to remind himself that just because Jules liked men, that didn’t mean that he liked  _ Grantaire. _ Hoping like that was dangerous. 

 

“Well…” he said slowly. “Sorry. For just assuming.” 

 

“It’s fine,” Jules said. “I’ve, um, been assuming you’re straight?” 

 

“Ha!” Grantaire shook his head. “Bi. In theory.” 

 

“In theory?” Jules asked. 

 

“It’s been a very long time since I was with anyone,” Grantaire said. And it had been an even longer time since he’d wanted to be with anyone who wasn’t Enjolras.

 

“Right,” Jules said. He looked like he was about to say more, but then the people in front of them started walking. It was time for the parade. 

 

The parade was fun. Everyone was laughing and smiling. Grantaire handed out candy to kids. Jehan was radiant with happiness, rainbows flying around them. Jules smiled and waved, beautiful and full of a shining assurance in himself. Grantaire wasn’t the only one watching him. 

 

At the end of the parade they passed a group of protesters spewing bile. Grantaire felt a delicate hand grab his, and he looked down to see that it belonged to Jules. Jules looked over at him, obviously checking that this was okay. Grantaire’s heart was in his throat, but he nodded. It was a stunt. A performance. It meant nothing. 

 

Jules raised their clasped hands in defiance. It felt so familiar: the two of them standing against those who hated them, hand in hand. 

 

***

 

Grantaire had signed up to help man the booth for a couple of hours, but after he was done with that he let Jehan pull him around the rows of stalls. He let them buy him a little rainbow button, and bought himself a shirt with  _ vive la resistance  _ written in rainbow letters because… how could he not? He accumulated a lot of useless little items with rainbows and logos on them, and even more useless pieces of paper. A couple men flirted with him, then stopped when they realized how very uninterested he was. 

 

He was surprised when, after a few hours, Jehan circled back around to the Legion’s booth, where Jules was telling two teenage girls holding hands what to do if they suspected that someone had drugged their drink. Jehan waited until they walked away (one having bought a t-shirt), then ran up to Jules, grabbing his hand. “I know your time is over, I looked at the schedule. You promised you’d dance with me!”  

 

Jules laughed. “Alright, pipsqueak, I did promise.” He checked that the other person manning the booth was okay, then let himself be pulled towards the big white tent near the center of the festival. He looked over his shoulder, grinning. “You coming, R?” he called. 

 

Grantaire nodded, following the two of them to the dance tent. 

 

The music was loud, something he couldn’t really recognize. He had never really gotten into pop (once grunge was invented he had personally decided that music needed to go no further) but Jehan and Jules were both singing along loudly as they jumped around, Jehan a little off beat. Grantaire sort of bounced in place, content to watch. 

 

That was, until Jehan noticed that Grantaire wasn’t really dancing and grabbed his hands, making him do a stunted little two step with them. Grantaire finally let himself go, swinging Jehan around the dance floor, trying to avoid having his toes stepped on. It was a losing battle. 

 

“ _ You’d think that you’d be a better dancer at this point,”  _ he said in French, which had become his standard for whenever he wanted to talk about Remembering when other people were around. 

 

“ _ For all you know, I’m a great dancer by ancient Aztec’s standards,”  _ Jehan said haughtily.    
  
Grantaire snorted.  _ “No you’re not,”  _ he said. 

 

Jehan giggled, doing an awkward little shoulder shimmy. “ _ No, I’m really not.” _ They looked over Grantaire’s shoulder, whistling. “ _ Damn, look at Enjolras, _ ” they said. 

 

Grantaire turned to look and nearly swallowed his tongue. 

 

Jules was dancing with a tall, dark haired man, head thrown back, eyes shut. The man’s front was plastered to Jules’ back and Jules had one hand in the man’s hair, the other pressed to the hand resting on his bare waist. The two of them moved together in a filthy grind. The man turned his head to whisper something in Jules’ ear, and his eyes slid open lazily to meet Grantaire’s. He smirked, letting go of the man’s hair to crook his finger in Grantaire’s direction. 

 

“Whelp!” said Jehan brightly, turning away from the scene in front of them. “That is my cue to leave. Have fun.” 

 

“Wait, no, Jehan don’t--” Grantaire said, turning to try to stop them, but they were already gone. 

 

Grantaire looked back and Jules raised an eyebrow at him, his hand still outstretched. Grantaire couldn’t say no to him. He let the crowd push him to Jules like flotsam carried to the shore by the surf. 

 

“This is Marcus,” Jules said in a low voice as he put his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, still grinding back against the man– Marcus. “He’s been keeping me company while you and Jehan conspired a language I don’t understand.” 

 

“This your boyfriend, sweetheart?” Marcus asked. “He’s cute.” 

 

Grantaire swallowed, trying to make himself laugh when all of his focus was on not getting hard while dancing with  _ Enjolras.  _ “Why do people always think that?” he asked, knowing his voice sounded a little strangled. 

 

“No idea,” Jules said, rolling his eyes for some reason. 

 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Grantaire said. 

 

Marcus chuckled, turning his head to murmur a soft, “Lucky me,” into Enjolras’s ear, lips brushing skin. 

 

This was pretty much one of Grantaire’s worse nightmares, but it wasn’t like he could break away. As long as Jules’s hand was on him, he would stay. 

 

The three of them danced for a while. Well… Marcus and Jules danced, Grantaire just stood there awkwardly, hands at his sides. Jules sighed, turning his head to kiss Marcus on the cheek, and Grantaire was sure he was about to see Enjolras leave to hook up with someone for the first time in his very long existence when Jules said, “I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight, Marcus.” 

 

Marcus grinned, shrugging. “I figured. Thanks for the dance.” 

 

He melted into the crowd and Jules turned his attention back on Grantaire, blue eyes laser focused.  _ “Now _ will you dance with me?” he asked, voice slightly teasing. 

 

Grantaire was so very confused. “He looked into it, why did you send him away?” he asked. 

 

Jules shrugged. “I wasn’t into it.” 

 

It sure hadn’t looked that way to Grantaire, but it wasn’t like he was sad to see the guy go. Slowly, he put his hands on Jules’ waist. The skin was smooth and soft and warm. Jules hummed, his eyes sliding shut again. He turned around gracefully and now his hands were in Grantaire’s hair, his back pressed to Grantaire’s front. Grantaire tried to subtly angle his hips so that Jules wouldn’t feel where he was definitely getting aroused. 

 

Jules danced against him like he had something to prove. Grantaire looked around for a protester, someone to whom this was an act of rebellion, but there was no one, just the sea of bodies dancing just like they were, everyone lost in their own little worlds. 

 

Jules was dancing for himself, he realized. For the selfish joy of it. That was the only answer, yet to Grantaire it was utterly absurd. Enjolras never did anything for himself, everything was about the greater good, about the Cause. 

 

But Jules was different. Jules was unlike any other Enjolras. Jules loved life in a way no other Enjolras had. 

 

Grantaire tightened his grip on Jules, pressed his face against his hair, and danced. 

 

And while he danced, he hoped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight the fuck out of me those rainbow fishnets are the ugliest things on the planet.


	8. Hope.

As the air cooled and leaves turned, Grantaire sat in his apartment and painted. He had painted thousands of pictures of Enjolras over the course of his existence. Enjolras in every form he had taken. Always glorious and untouchable. Always doing less living and more planning for his eventual martyrdom. Grantaire had watched eight version of Enjolras die, and each one had hurt more than his own deaths.

 

He had painted eight of Enjolras’s faces, but this time was different. This time, the ninth time, he painted Jules. Beautiful, real Jules. Jules with his ideals still so grand but now with a love of life that might just keep him alive, might just let Grantaire live to see his face start to form laugh lines.

 

He didn’t paint him as a god or a statue, as he so often painted Enjolras. He painted him as a man, flesh and blood and sweat and tears. He painted him in the cafe, putting his coat over Jehan when they had fallen asleep after studying all night for a final. He painted him in synagogue, singing out to the heavens. He painted him dancing at Pride like no one was watching, sensual and joyous.

 

He did not use gold leaf or mythological imagery. He did not write the titles in curling Latin. These images were not grand. They were tender. Intimate.

 

He loved Jules, he thought as he painted. But he loved him differently than he had loved any of the others, even the first Enjolras. Every other Enjolras he had idealized and placed on a pedestal. They were Apollos, just like the first. A devotee could love a god, of course, but not in a manner that was equal, not in a manner uncensored and open.

 

Grantaire had always worshipped Enjolras, but he _liked_ Jules. He liked being around him, liked talking to him. He liked his horrible laugh and his delicate hands. While Grantaire had always loved Enjolras so desperately it filled his entire being, he didn’t know if he had ever liked him very much.

 

It was nice. It felt more honest, somehow, than anything he had had with Enjolras before.

  
At night, when Grantaire touched himself, his fantasies began to change. Instead of marble skin and a firm hand directing Grantaire on how to best please, he thought of smiling summer sky eyes and messy cornsilk hair and starry freckles. Of beautifully ugly laughter. Of slow, teasing sensuality. Of the way that Jules’s body had moved against him in the dance tent.

 

He had always felt somewhat dirty when he thought of Enjolras this way, shame mixing with arousal as he dirtied his Apollo by bringing him down from the purity of divinity to the earthly muds of carnal desire. But Jules was different.

  
Grantaire let himself picture it. Let himself think of how it would be with Jules. Jules would laugh into kisses. He would race Grantaire to see which of them could get their clothes off first. He would push Grantaire back onto the bed, eager and happy to find his pleasure in Grantaire’s arms. He would fuck like he laughed, like he danced, unselfconscious and unashamed.

 

The first time Grantaire came with Jules’ name on his lips instead of Enjolras’s, he felt something in his chest click like a door closing.

 

(Or maybe the door was already closed. Maybe it had been closed for two hundred years and Grantaire had never noticed. Maybe, just maybe, this was a new door opening.)  

 

***

 

Jules’ birthday was in October, and Grantaire pulled the Legion together to throw him a surprise party at the diner.

 

Their waitress convinced the manager to to let them turn off the lights and pretend like the place was closed. Crouched under a table, Grantaire had to cover Jehan’s mouth to stop them from giggling in delight.

 

Jules tried the door and, finding it unlocked, walked inside, calling out a confused, “Hello? Is everything okay, you guys are usually open around no--”

 

“SURPRISE!!!” shrieked Jehan, popping up from behind a chair, still completely in the dark.

 

There was a collective groan.

 

“Jehan, we were going to count to twenty then jump out,” Grantaire complained, crawling out from under the table.   
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Jehan said, blushing as someone turned on the lights. “I just got so excited.”

 

With the lights on, the red streamers, gold balloons, and red banner with _HAPPY 23rd BIRTHDAY, JULES!_ written on it in gold paint were all visible. Grantaire sighed. He’d really wanted it to be a little more grand when they were revealed. He’d had to get the balloons online.

 

“Sorry, that was supposed to be more-- are you _crying_?” Grantaire said, turning to Jules.

 

Jules shook his head, swiping his palms over his eyes. “No, just allergies.”

 

“You so are,” Grantaire said, grinning. “Oh, you softie.”   
  
Jules glared at him. “I am not,” he groused.

 

“C’mon,” Grantaire said, holding out his arms. “Give me a hug.”

 

Jules breathed out a faux annoyed little breath, but let himself be folded into the hug.

 

“Group hug!” yelled Jehan, obviously trying to make up for their earlier mistake, and soon they were being crushed from all sides by the members of the Legion.

 

Jules laughed his horrible, honking laugh, then pressed his face to Grantaire’s chest. He said something, muffled by the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt.

 

(It almost sounded like _I_ _love you_.)

 

(Of course, if that was what he said, he had to have meant the whole Legion.)

 

“Alright!” Grantaire hollered, pulling away. “Stop crushing the birthday boy, this is probably enough physical contact to last him a year.”

 

The members of the Legion laughed and backed off. For a moment, there was a shadow over Jules’s face, but then it was gone.

 

The cook at the diner had made Jules a cake, and the Legion sang “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs and completely out of tune. Jules thought long and hard before blowing out his candles.

 

As they ate the cake, everyone gave Jules presents. Most of them were either homemade (more than one person had knitted him a red scarf or hat) or something small like a candy bar or, in one hilarious case, a box of double XL condoms. Jehan gave Jules a little booklet of poems they had written about him, which earned them another hug.

 

Grantaire gave Jules his gift last. The canvas was wrapped in plain brown paper. Jules unwrapped it carefully, then looked up at Grantaire with wide eyes.

 

The painting was of Jules the first time Grantaire had made him laugh. His face was scrunched up, his head thrown back. He looked so very, very human. It had been hard for Grantaire to part with it, but it was important to him that Jules had this moment as it had been from Grantaire’s eyes. Perfect and magical and wonderful in its ordinariness.

 

Everyone crowded around the painting to ooh and ahh at it, impressed by Grantaire’s skill. Jules just looked at Grantaire, smiling softly.

 

Yeah. Grantaire really, really liked him.


	9. Riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry this is late. I had some anxiety about posting this chapter because of the content. 
> 
> So, warning, short vision (more spoiler-y details in the end notes). 
> 
> This chapter briefly discusses the very real and very horrific epidemic in America of unarmed black people being killed by white men who don't face any consequences. There is a violent riot. There is one instance of a homophobic slur. Also, Jules/Enjolras has some pretty gross behavior where he puts ideals over people's safety (I mean, what else is new there).

The first time it snowed that winter, Jules called an emergency meeting of the Legion.

 

Grantaire arrived with a smile, expecting it to be for something like hot cocoa and a snowball fight. It seemed like the kind of thing Jules would do. When he walked into the cafe, however, everyone was quiet, serious. There were poster boards and markers sitting on several tables.

 

“What’s going on?” he asked, walking up to Jehan, who’s brows were furrowed as they looked down at their phone.

 

“There’s an Alt-Right protest happening at the courthouse,” they said.

 

“Call them what they are,” Jules said sharply from where he was bent over a sign with a lot of angry red letters. “Fucking Nazis.”

 

Jehan nodded. “Well… the Nazis are protesting a trial for another white man who shot an unarmed black teenager. It’s getting big, and there are counter protestors too. It’s starting to get really tense. There’s a police presence, but it’s getting bigger by the minute, and you know who they’ll end up protecting if something happens.”

 

Grantaire looked at Jules, feeling sick. “You want us to go down there,” he said.

 

“Our voices need to be heard,” Jules said.

 

“Apollo, c’mon, you know what happens at these sorts of things,” Grantaire said.

 

“We’ll be smart,” Jules said.

 

Grantaire didn’t feel reassured. With Enjolras, smart was more likely to mean that he was sure that they were the better fighters than that he would stay out of the conflict, and Grantaire did not think that was true. Jules was so thin…

 

“We can’t do this,” Grantaire said, feeling terror start to grip him. _Not Jules. God, please, no. Not this one._

 

There was disgust in Jules’s face. “How can you stand by?” he asked. “How can you be willing to let this happen?”

 

“We can still fight it, just not like this.”

 

Jules looked so betrayed. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

 

“Yes.” Grantaire said desperately, taking Jules’s arm. “Don’t go.”

 

“Your fear doesn’t matter as much as the suffering of the people who could be affected by this,” Jules said sharply, shaking him off.

 

_Our little lives don’t count at all._

 

“Please,” Grantaire whispered. “Jules.”

 

Jules sneered at him, the expression so unfamiliar on this face, and turned away.

 

Grantaire stared after him. He could already see him bleeding out.

 

_“What are you going to do?”_ Jehan asked in French from behind them.

 

Grantaire turned to look at them, shaking his head. _“What can I do?”_ he asked. _“I’m going to follow him.”_

 

Jehan sighed. _“I was afraid you’d say that,”_ they said softly. _“Remember, Granatire, that way leads heartbreak.”_

 

_“I know,”_ said Grantaire. _“Trust me, I know.”_

 

Jehan gave him a hug, standing on their tiptoes to kiss his cheek. _“I’m going to go home,”_ they said. _“I don’t want my family dealing with something happening to me when I’m this young. And dying for him once was enough for me.”_

 

_“I understand,”_ Grantaire said. _“If this is the end…”_

 

_“Find me next time,”_ Jehan said. _“You don’t have to do this alone.”_

 

Jehan turned and left. No one begrudged them that, thank God. As far as the Legion knew, Jehan was far too young to be involved in this.

 

Grantaire returned to Jules’s side. “Give me a sign,” he said.   
  
Jules nodded, grimly pleased as a general is to see another soldier. There was no laughter now.

 

***

 

Snow lay over the streets of Chicago like a blank page waiting to be written on in bloody ink. It was loud, Grantaire knew that, but he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Next to him, Jules screamed, brandishing a sign, face alight with fury.

 

_No,_ Grantaire thought. _This is Enjolras._

 

(Maybe that would make it easier. He’d seen Enjolras die plenty of times.)

  
Despite the winter cold, the air was hot with the threat of violence. Anything could start the fighting. Police watched the two groups of protesters warily, though there were not yet interfering. Grantaire did not think that they would be able to hold them apart if interference was necessary.

 

Next to him, Enjolras’s screaming had gotten more pointed. Grantaire tried to focus. In the other group, a huge man in a Confederate flag shirt was screaming back.

 

“Fucking Nazi!” Enjolras yelled, spitting towards the man.   
  
“Say that again, fag,” the man returned.

 

Faster than the police could stop him, Enjolras managed to dart across the gap between the two groups. The sound of fist hitting skin was very loud.

 

“Fuck!” the man yelped into the sudden silence.

 

For a moment, Enjolras stood like an avenging god; Apollo burning in a heavenly fire.   
  
Then the man hit Enjolras back hard enough to make him drop like a sack of potatoes.

 

“No!” Grantaire yelled, fighting through the violence that had broken out on steps of the courthouse.

 

His mind was engulfed in rage, and he knew that he hit people, he could feel the sting in his knuckles, but he did not know who or how many. When he got to Enjolras he had been abandoned in favor of a more mobile target. He lay on the ground, face bleeding and bruises already beginning to form.

 

Grantaire didn’t think. He picked Enjolras up in a fireman’s hold and ran.

He was probably a mile clear of the court house when Enjolras shifted.

 

“R?” he said blearily.

 

Grantaire turned them into an alleyway, then dropped him unceremoniously. “Good, you’re alive,” he said, voice cold.

 

Enjolras sat up from where he had fallen, rubbing his head. “What happened?” he asked.

 

“You were stupid,” Grantaire snarled. “You were stupid, and reckless, and you could have gotten yourself fucking killed.”

 

Enjolras looked around. “Wait, where are the others?” he asked, standing. “We need to go back. The fighting’s probably still happening. We--” He swayed, putting his hand on the brick wall to stop himself from falling over. Under the lurid bruises, his face was very pale.

 

Grantaire was furious. “You want to go back into that?!” he yelled, stalking towards him. “You got in one punch and then they took you down in _seconds_.”

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Enjolras said. “All of the Legion is back there. We need to help them.”

 

“Oh, so now you care?” Grantaire said, laughing a little hysterically. “Now you fucking care about the people you put in danger?”

 

“R, I didn’t think that would happen, I didn’t think--”

 

“You never think!” Grantaire exploded. “All you care about is change. About your fucking Cause! You don’t give a damn about people. You’re selfish and cruel and you’re going to get people killed! I told you not to go, but you did anyway. You didn’t listen to me. _Why do you never fucking listen, Enjolras?!_ ”

 

For a long moment his words hung in the air. Too late, Grantaire realized what he’d said.

 

“Who’s Enjolras?” Jules whispered.

 

Grantaire stared at him. His cornsilk hair. His sky blue eyes.

 

“Go back to the cafe,” he said, backing away. “I’ll make sure the others are okay.”

 

“R--” Jules said, stepping towards him.

 

“I said go back to the cafe!” he snapped, and Jules froze.

 

Grantaire turned his back on Jules and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, more details. 
> 
> In the story, there is a protest happening at a courthouse where a white man is being put on trail for killing an unarmed black teenager. Enjolras wants to go to the protest and Grantaire is seriously concerned for both of their safety. Enjolras is a bit of a gross white person by not understanding why Grantaire wouldn't want to risk his personal safety in a protest that is almost definitely going to become a riot. I do not in any way condone Enjolras's behavior. The protest does break out into riot, and Enjolras is injured, though not seriously.


	10. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I’ve been MIA for a while. This thing is almost entirely written, it just needs some editing. Enjoy these sad boy chapters.

At the Legion meeting a week later, the atmosphere was strained. It was obvious that the members didn’t know how to feel about the events of the riot. 

 

Luckily, like Grantaire, all of them had had the good sense to find friends and run as soon as the violence started. Jules was the most hurt of all of them with a concussion, bruised ribs, and a couple cuts that had needed stitches. Grantaire was surprised that there had been only one member who had made it clear that he was not going to be part of the Legion anymore. They were a loyal bunch, these Amis. 

 

Grantaire sat in the corner of the cafe, away from his usual seat at Jules’ side. It felt familiar. All he needed was a bottle. He could feel Jules trying to catch his eye, but he refused to meet his gaze. He hadn’t looked at him since he had left him in that alley. 

 

Next to him, Jehan murmured,  _ “He’s certainly missing some of his flair today _ .” 

 

Grantaire could hear it. Jules kept stumbling over words, losing his train of thought. 

 

_ “It’s the concussion,”  _ he said.  _ “I bet he’s not even supposed to be out of bed.”  _

 

Jehan shook their head.  _ “It’s you. You’ve become his right hand man.”  _

 

Grantaire thought of Combeferre, dead on the barricade.  _ “I’m not his anything. I’m just the idiot who keeps dying for him.”  _

 

_ “Some of that is true,”  _ Jehan said sadly.  _ “He’s looking over here again.”  _

 

_ “I don’t care,”  _ Grantaire growled.  _ “I’m sick of being a soldier in his mad crusades.”  _

 

_ “You could leave,”  _ Jehan said.  _ “Nothing’s stopping you.”  _

 

_ “Everything is stopping me,”  _ Grantaire said. He was trapped in this cycle, forced to repeat himself over and over again until the end of time. 

 

Jehan sighed and stood, going to join the main group. 

 

Grantaire let himself drift in anger and resentment. He thought about Nietzsche and eternal return. 

 

_ "What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust.’" _

 

Enjolras hated Nietzsche. He couldn’t stand his cynicism. He said his writings were pretentious negativity disguised as wisdom. Grantaire, however, found in him a kindred spirit, and in his writings often took comfort. 

 

He didn’t take comfort in it now. 

 

He was chained to Enjolras, he thought. Tied to him through comradery and love and blood. He could never escape. The riot had not been the end of this life, but that didn’t mean that it was not coming. The sand of the hour glass was almost out, but that wouldn’t give him relief. He would have to do this again. And again. And again. Over and over again through eternity until the sun burnt out. And who knew, maybe even then too. Maybe when the earth was gone he’d be sent off to some alien planet with some alien Enjolras. 

 

The future stretched out before him, so immeasurably immense that it made him sick. The hourglass flipping over and over and over. 

 

Jules wasn’t different than Enjolras, Jules was Enjolras, and just like every other Enjolras he would die in a blaze of glory, and the Enjolras who was born next would do the same. 

 

Grantaire looked out from inside of the hourglass. He was imprisoned here, drowning in the sands of time. 

 

But the walls were just glass. 

 

_ You could leave _ , Jehan had said.  _ Nothing’s stopping you. _

 

Grantaire had died for Enjolras eight times. Was he really going to do it again?  

 

_ That way leads heartbreak, Grantaire.  _

 

Did he have to let heartbreak be his normal? 

 

Grantaire was suddenly aware that the cafe had gone almost eerily quiet. He looked up, and he was shocked when his eyes met Jules’. Jules was staring right at him, as though he was waiting for a response. Grantaire forced down love and adoration that was now so instinctive that it was written in his DNA and he recalled how he had once been. The drunk. The cynic. 

 

“What was that, Apollo?” Grantaire asked, voice cold and mocking.

 

“I said,” Jules said, voice small and pleading and  _ young _ , “Will you at least look at me?” 

 

Grantaire looked at him. He saw countless deaths in his eyes. 

 

“You know what, Apollo?” he said, standing up. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.” 

 

He walked out of the cafe and into the winter light, shattering the walls of the hourglass. 


	11. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains themes of suicidal ideation and alcoholism.

Grantaire hated moving, so he left everything in Chicago and flew back to Paris with only the clothes on his back. It didn’t matter. The only things that Grantaire couldn’t replace were the paintings of Enjolras, and he didn’t want those anymore. 

 

He’d ended his lease in his old apartment in Paris, so he found a tiny studio with just the average amount of roaches and leaks. He had clothes in his storage unit, and if they were a little outdated, who cared. He put a mattress down on the floor, ordered shitty takeout, and tried to figure out what he was going to do now. 

 

He’d never known both who Enjolras was and where he was and not stood by his side. Who was he, without Enjolras? Was there even a Grantaire anymore? He didn’t know the answer to that, so he painted. 

 

For once, he didn’t paint Enjolras. He painted himself. He painted his face, cobbled together from all of his faces. He painted his deaths. He painted his addiction and his self loathing and his cynicism. He peeled back layer after layer of his own bullshit, searching for something redeemable, something that he could be proud of. 

 

But every time he found something good inside of himself, it was shaped like Enjolras. Seeds of kindness and conviction and passion and strength, none of them his own, all of them gifts from his fucking benevolent god. His Apollo. 

 

He was rotten and broken, and without Enjolras to tend to the parts of him that were good they became rotten and broken too. 

 

He stopped painting. He laid on the mattress on the floor and tried to sleep.

 

He couldn’t sleep, so he started to walk. 

 

He walked Paris, its new, shiny face and its old, seedy underbelly. His home. He wandered to where the Cafe Musain once stood, now surrounded by chain stores. He stood where the blood had soaked the cobblestones and tried to feel the ghosts of his friends. 

 

Of course, the ghosts weren’t there. The souls of his friends had moved on. Why hadn’t he? 

 

For someone for whom death wasn’t permanent, suicide wasn’t a viable option. Death would not grant him forgetfulness, but perhaps death wasn’t the only option. 

 

He turned away from the missing ghosts of the Musain, and he searched for something new. He did not have to walk far to find what he was looking for. 

 

It had been over a hundred years since he’d last walked into a liquor store, but though the neon lights and brands were different, the air was still the same. It carried the cloying stench of hopelessness, and the promise of relief. Grantaire passed by the cheap red wine. Once he returned to the alcoholic stupor that was once his constant state of being that would do, but if he was going to end one hundred and eight years, two months, and four days of sobriety, he was going to do it with a bang. 

 

He brought the green bottle of absinthe to the counter, setting it down with gravity. He almost felt like it deserved a speech. A eulogy to the man he had let Enjolras shape him into. 

 

There was no such grandiosity though. He handed over his money and the bottle was placed in a paper bag. He considered just opening it and taking a drink as soon as he exited the shop, but it felt almost disrespectful.  

 

He brought the bottle back to his shitty studio. He pulled out the cork. He breathed in the sickly sweet scent, familiar after all these years. He brought the bottle to his lips. 

 

He paused. Should he really be doing it like this, right out of the bottle? A glass would be more appropriate, he thought. 

 

He left the bottle next to the mattress and left the studio, looking for somewhere that sold shot glasses. He walked for several blocks, finally coming across a touristy shop with souvenir shot glasses, the Eiffel tower depicted on the side. That seemed suitably ironic. A glass designed to help someone remember to help him forget. Or was it Forget, in this case? 

 

He returned to his studio and the bottle. He wiped out the glass and poured himself a shot of vibrant green alcohol. Once again, he brought it to his lips.

 

He stared out at the dingy room as the light faded, the shot glass resting against his bottom lip. This scene, he realized, was no longer familiar to him. This was a different man’s life. 

 

He went to the bathroom and poured the absinthe down the drain. 

 

Maybe every good thing inside of him were just seeds planted there by Enjolras. But Enjolras had not cultivated those seeds and made them grow. Grantaire had. He had made his existence one that he was proud of, and he would not turn his back on that. 

 

Once the alcohol had disappeared down the drain, he returned to his mattress, sitting down, unsure about what he was going to do next. Next to him, his phone buzzed. He picked it up, looking down at the words on the screen. 

 

**_Jules:_ ** _ Please come back. We need you here.  _

 

Grantaire stared at it, wavering. 

 

Another message appeared after it. 

 

**_Jules:_ ** _ I need you here, R. Please.  _

 

Grantaire stood. He had a plane to catch. 


	12. Return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow remember when I said this would have a consistent update schedule? Lol, sorry.

Jules was waiting for Grantaire at international arrivals. He looked tired, deep hollows under his eyes and a bit of scruff growing where he was normally clean shaven. Grantaire sighed, walking up to him and giving him a hug. Jules returned it, clinging to him like he was the only lifeline in a stormy sea. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back after a long time. His cuts from the riot had mostly healed, though a couple angry red scars remained. 

 

“So am I,” Grantaire said. “I shouldn’t have left.” 

 

“Yes, you should have,” Jules said, breaking away. “You were right. About all of it. I was reckless and thoughtless and I put you and everyone else in danger.” 

 

“Yeah. That’s exactly why I shouldn’t have left,” Grantaire replied with a little smile. “Who’s going to rein you in if I’m not here stopping you from being an idiot?” 

 

Jules laughed a little wetly, pressing his face to Grantaire’s chest. “I missed you,” he said fiercely. “Do you have any idea how important you are to me, R?” 

 

Grantaire sighed. “Probably not as much as you are to me.” 

 

“Bullshit,” Jules growled, hugging him tighter. “You’re my best friend.” 

 

Grantaire smiled softly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Jules’s head. “You’re mine too, Apollo.” 

 

Jules chuckled softly, pulling away. “Come on. Let’s get your bags.” 

 

Jules had apparently borrowed his moms’ car to drive to the airport, which was nice. Grantaire had two large, flat bags, and they were both delicate enough that he’d be worried about them with a cab driver. 

 

“What are those?” Jules asked as he stood back and let Grantaire place them delicately in the back seat.

 

“The paintings I did while I was gone,” Grantaire said. 

 

Jules didn’t press. Once they were on the road though, he said softly, “Jehan told me. About Enjolras.” 

 

Grantaire froze, staring out the window unseeingly. He had almost forgotten that he had called Jules that. “Did they?” he asked, voice guarded. 

 

“They said he was someone you knew in Paris, and that he died.” 

 

Grantaire didn’t know what do say. Technically, that was completely true. 

 

“They said you loved him,” Jules continued, voice soft. “Well. No. They said you  _ love _ him.” 

 

Grantaire sighed, leaning back in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut. Damn Jehan. At least they hadn’t told him the whole truth.    
  
“I do love him,” Grantaire said after a long silence. It felt strange, talking about Enjolras with Jules. 

 

Jules let out a soft little breath. “They said I look like him.” 

 

Grantaire nodded. Maybe this would be healing or something. To talk about Enjolras to Enjolras. Therapeutic in some weird, fucked up way. “I mean, as much as any other blond haired, blue eyed man looks like him. But… you have his same spirit.”  _ Literally. _

 

“Did he die in a protest?” Jules asked. 

 

Grantaire nodded. “Something like that.” 

 

“What happened?” 

 

Graintare closed his eyes. His hand in Enjolras’s. The firing squad aiming their rifles. “He was shot.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Jules said. That hurt, but maybe in a way that was necessary. 

 

“So am I,” Grantaire whispered. 

 

“What was he like?” Jules asked. 

 

Grantaire smiled softly. “Stubborn. Brilliant. Angry. Passionate. Cruel... but not because he was hateful, just because his plans left no room for kindness.” 

 

Jules frowned. “He doesn’t sound like a great person to be around.”

 

Grantaire laughed. “He was though. He was like… when he spoke to you, it was like he was pouring light into your bones. He was so completely committed to the Cause, and it made you want to believe like he did. It made you feel like you were more than you were.

 

“When I met him I was a cynic and a drunk. I’d sit at the back of those meetings and heckle him and his believers, make fun of the idea of a better tomorrow as I drowned myself in booze. But he didn’t care if the rest of the world didn’t believe in the future. He did. He could see the beauty of a life where we were free, and he died fighting for it.

 

“I didn’t believe in anything when I met him, but he made me better. He made everyone around him better. When he died… it was such a loss.” 

 

“You were scared that the same thing was going to happen to me,” Jules said quietly.    
  
Grantaire nodded. “I’m still scared.” 

 

He was almost thankful that Jules said nothing to put down his fears. He was still Enjolras, after all. 

 

“Do you have a picture of him or something?” Jules asked. 

 

Was that smart? Grantaire wondered. To show Jules his old face? Though, what was Grantaire really afraid of? The tiny possibility that it would somehow upset Jules, or the much more real possibility that he would feel absolutely nothing looking at it, which would only hurt Grantaire?    
  
“R?” Jules asked softly, after Grantaire had been silent for too long.    
  
“I have paintings,” Grantaire said finally. “If you want to see those.” 

 

“I would.” 

 

They were silent for the rest of the drive back to Grantaire’s apartment (which, luckily, he hadn’t been away from long enough for his lease to run out, though rent was due soon). Once Grantaire had set his bags down, he turned to Jules. 

  
“Stay here,” he said. There were no paintings in the living room. He went to his bedroom, emerging with an old painting of Enjolras. Luckily, Jules probably didn’t know enough about art to realize that this was far, far older than Grantaire’s body. It was from his second lifetime, when the memory of Enjolras’s face had still been fresh. “This is him,” he said softly, feeling like he was bearing a piece of his soul. 

 

Jules stared at the painting, face strangely blank. “He’s handsome,” he said finally. “But you were right, we don’t look very similar once you get past the coloring.” 

 

Grantaire leaned the painting against the wall, going to stand next to Jules to look at it. The canvas was huge, almost five feet tall. The image was of Enjolras as he had looked as Grantaire walked towards him that final time, defiant in the face of death. Grantaire had given him massive white wings spattered with blood and a shining golden halo. 

 

“You must really love him,” Jules said softly. “You said at Pride that you hadn’t been with anyone for a long time. Is he the reason?” 

 

Grantaire bit his lip. The answer to that was complicated, but finally he admitted, “Yes, it is.” 

 

“Do you think you’ll ever stop loving him?” Jules asked. 

 

“No,” Grantaire said. That was easier to answer. 

 

For a moment they were silent, staring at Enjolras, then: 

 

“Thank you, for showing me,” Jules said. “For trusting me with his memory.” 

 

“I’d trust you with anything,” Grantaire said. 

 

Jules turned away from the painting, and the strange spell was broken. “I have to go,” he said apologetically. “My moms need their car back.” 

 

“Of course,” Grantaire said, smiling faintly. “Maybe we can hang out at the diner tomorrow?” 

 

Jules hummed noncommittally. “Maybe. I’m kind of busy though.” 

 

“Oh,” Grantaire said. “Right. Of course.” 

 

“But I’ll see you at the meeting?” Jules asked, like he was scared Grantaire wouldn’t come. 

 

Grantaire nodded. “Of course,” he said. “See you then, Apollo.” 

 

Jules turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, “See you, Grantaire.” 

 

Grantaire watched him go, smiling softly, glad to be back with Jules, no matter what being by his his side would mean. 

 

(It wasn’t until just before he drifted off to sleep that night he vaguely wondered when Jules had found out his real name.) 


	13. Distance.

Jules was acting strange. 

 

It was subtle, like being in a room where everything had been moved just slightly to the left. Since Grantaire had returned from Paris, Jules had been nothing but friendly. He and Grantaire still discussed their plans for the Legion at meetings. He still listened to Grantaire’s opinions and sharpened his own against them. He was still Grantaire’s best friend. 

 

But more often than not he was busy when Grantaire asked him if he wanted to meet at the diner, and he touched Grantaire less. Grantaire hadn’t noticed how much Jules touched him until he stopped. He was also quiet sometimes, withdrawn. He would get lost in thought and miss whole sections of debates. He was tired, once even falling asleep during a meeting. 

  
Despite his odd behavior, Jules was just as determined to save the world as ever. Perhaps even more so. The Legion had been getting more attention lately, and its ranks were swelling rapidly. Jules wanted to have a rally, something big and noisey with speeches and musicians. He’d been in contact with other organizations both in America and internationally, and several people were coming to speak or perform. 

 

_ “Something big is coming,” _ Jehan said one day as they sat in their room in the Yao’s house with Grantaire, the plate of snacks that Mr. Yao had brought up sitting between them. _ “I can feel it.”  _

 

_ “Something good or something bad?”  _ Grantaire asked. 

 

Jehan shrugged.  _ “All I know is it’s going to change things.”  _

 

_ “How do you know?”  _ Grantaire asked. 

 

_ “When you’re as old as me, you start to see the patterns _ . _ ”  _ Jehan replied. 

 

Grantaire saw a pattern too. This rally was going to be big. He felt that, perhaps, it was Jules’s barricade. 

 

The liberals weren’t the only ones paying attention to the rally. People had tracked the start of the violence at the courthouse back to the Legion, and there were rumors about counter protesters, Alt-Righters who wanted revenge. If they weren’t careful, this could turn into another riot. 

 

Grantaire had accepted, however, that if it did, he would face whatever came his his head held high. He had broken out of the constantly turning hourglass, and then he had calmly gone back to it. He thought of the second part of that quote from Nietzsche. 

 

_ “Have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.’ If this thought gained possession of you, it would change you as you are or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, ‘Do you desire this once more and innumerable times more?’ would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?” _

 

Indeed, Grantaire had reached a point in his life where he looked forward to the eternal return. Jules would not be the last kind Enjolras. He would not be the last one with blond hair. He would not be the last one to laugh. There would be another Enjolras, and innumerable more after him, and Grantaire would love each one just as fiercely as he had loved all of those who came before. 

 

But… he did not think he could handle losing Jules with this space that had suddenly grown between them. 

 

The rally was the next day. The speakers and musicians had arrived, a small stage was ready to be erected near the stature of  _ The Republic  _ in Jackson Park. Chatter about a counterprotest had increased, the rumors bad enough that police were on standby. 

 

Jules was not happy about that last part. “The last thing this rally needs is  _ police _ ,” he growled as he stuffed his things into his satchel at the end of the last meeting before the event. 

 

He was about to rush out of the door like he normally did when Grantaire grabbed his arm. “Jules,” he said softly, “Can we talk?” 

 

Jules looked caught out, nervous. This was the first time that they had touched since he had gone to Grantaire’s apartment. “I have things to do,” he said, though he made no effort to pull away. 

 

“Please,” Grantaire said. “Just for a little bit?” 

 

“I’m not cancelling the rally,” Jules said. “I know you’re scared, but I need to do this.” 

 

Grantaire sighed. “I know. I’m not going to stop you. It’s about something else.” 

 

Jules bit his lip. Finally, he nodded. “The diner?” he asked. 

 

Grantaire shook his head. “My place. I don’t really want people overhearing this.” 

 

Slowly, Jules nodded. “Okay.” 

 

They walked the few blocks back to Grantaire’s apartment. Once they were inside, Jules turned to Grantaire, his arms crossed defensively. He seemed to purposely shift his body to put the painting of Enjolras still leaning against the wall fimly to his back. 

 

“So, what do you want to talk about?” he asked. 

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Grantaire said, getting straight to the point. 

 

Jules looked at his feet, freckled cheeks flushing. “We see each other all the time.” 

 

“At meetings,” Grantaire protested. “That doesn’t count. We haven’t gone to the diner in weeks.” 

 

“I’ve been busy with the rally…” Jules muttered. God, he was such a bad liar. 

 

“Is that why you stopped touching me?” Grantaire asked. 

 

Jules’s ears were pink now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

 

“Since we became friends you’ve always touched me. More than you touch anyone else. Besides that hug when I got back from France you haven’t touched me at all.” He sighed. “Are you mad at me for leaving? I came back.” 

 

“I’m not mad,” Jules said, shuffling. “It has nothing to do with you leaving.” 

 

“Then what is it?” Grantaire pressed. 

 

There was long silence, and then: 

 

“Him,” Jules whispered. “It’s about him.” 

 

“Him?” Grantaire asked. “Who’s--” his eyes landed on the painting of Enjolras behind Jules. “You’re… avoiding me because of Enjolras?” 

 

Why would Jules do that? Unless he Remembered Enjolras, but he had seen that painting and there hadn’t been a shining moment of recognition. 

 

“I just…” Jules said, running a hand through his hair. “When you showed me that painting--” he jerked his head back towards the canvas “--I understood. I didn’t before. At first I thought you knew and were ignoring it because you were straight. Then I thought you were just really oblivious. And then I thought I was some sort of… fucked up replacement. But then you showed me the painting of him, and I went home and I looked at the painting you made me, and I realized… I’m not even that. I could never be--” 

 

“Wait,” Grantaire interrupted. “What are you talking about?” 

 

Jules stared at him, incredulous. “Wow,” he said. “Wow, I didn’t even… you didn’t even… I mean that little next to him.” 

 

Grantaire was so confused. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What are we even talking about right now?” 

 

“You love him,” Jules said. “Not loved. Love. You said so yourself, you could never stop loving him.” 

 

“Yes,” Grantaire said, nodding slowly. “That’s true. But why are you talking about--” 

 

“Because  _ I love you _ , Grantaire!” Jules burst out. “Jesus, why do I have to spell it out?” 

 

Grantaire stared at him. 

 

He opened his mouth. 

 

He closed it.    
  
“What?” he whispered, barely even sound. 

 

“I love you,” Jules said again, shoulders slumping. He looked so defeated. “I love you, and you love him.”

 

“Jules…” Grantaire said. 

 

Jules sniffled. God was he  _ crying?  _ “Look, I get it. I might have his… his spirit or whatever, but you paint him as this beautiful perfect angel and you paint me ugly laughing. I get it.” 

 

Jules was jealous of Enjolras. He was jealous of  _ himself _ . Grantaire, despite himself, started to laugh. 

 

Jules looked offended. “What the fuck,” he said. “I just like… bared my heart to you and you’re  _ laughing  _ at me?” 

 

Grantaire shook his head, giggling helplessly. “No. Yes. A little. Sorry I just--” 

 

“I’m going to leave,” Jules said, trying to cover his hurt with haughtiness. “I don’t need this. I have a rally to prepare for.” 

 

“No, Jules, stay,” Grantaire said, trying to get a hold on himself. “Sorry, fuck I just… you have it so wrong.” 

 

Jules crossed his arms defensively. “How do I have it wrong?” he snapped. 

 

Grantaire leaned back against the wall, sighing. “You think because I paint him as an angel and you laughing, I can’t possibly love you. That’s… that so wrong. Enjolras was perfect. He was like an angel or a god or a lightning storm--”

 

“This isn’t making me feel better,” Jules interrupted. 

 

“Shut up,” Grantaire said. “He was perfect. And you’re not.” 

 

“Thanks,” Jules said sarcastically. 

 

“No,  _ listen _ to me, Jules,” Grantaire said. “Listen. When I was around Enjolras I always felt like I wasn’t enough. It was like… I would call him a statue all the time. Like something carved out of marble. He was perfect, but he couldn’t have ever loved me back. I love him, I’ll never stop loving him, but I love you more.” 

 

Jules looked like he wanted to say something, but Grantaire steamrolled on. He had to say this. He was shaking. He’d never told any Enjolras his feelings before. 

 

“You’re so human, Jules. You smile and you laugh and you dance like… God, do you have any idea how many nights I’ve laid in bed thinking about the way you danced with me at Pride? Enjolras would have  _ never _ done something like that. Not unless there was a way to weaponize it in some way. 

 

“You look at that painting I gave you, and you think it means I don’t love you? You’re so, so wrong. I love you so much, Jules. Not like I loved him. Not this burning, all consuming thing that eats up my insides until there’s nothing left of me but loving him. He… he…” Fuck, he needed something poetic. What would Jehan say? 

 

“He burnt me down to the ground. But you… you planted flowers in what was left. Not even… not even vegetables or trees or… Just flowers. If Enjolras had loved me, he would have loved me because it was useful. 

 

“I will never stop loving Enjolras, but don’t think that doesn’t mean I love you. Because I love you, Jules.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you.” 

 

Jules looked floored. He took a small step forward. “You love me?” he repeated. “But… why did you never… it was so obvious that I was into you.” 

 

Grantaire snorted. “Jules, I didn’t realize you were gay until you told me, despite the fact that everyone around us was very aware of the fact. Do you think I could have figured out that you were into me on my own?” 

 

Jules chuckled softly. “For someone as smart as you are, you can be really dumb.” 

 

_ “So dumb _ ,” Grantaire agreed. 

 

Jules took another step forward, bolder. “You love me,” he said, no uncertainty in his voice. 

 

“I love you,” Grantaire answered.  _ I love you, Enjolras. In every shape, with every face, with every name.  _

 

_ I love you, Jules. Like I’ve never loved any other.   _

 

“I love you,” Jules whispered, and now they were so close, Jules’s face inches from his own. 

 

Grantaire felt braver than he’d ever felt all his lives. “Then kiss me,” he whispered back. 

 

Jules kissed him. 

 

Inside of Grantaire, flowers bloomed. 


	14. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realize that it's been literally forever since I updated this. My life got really crazy for a bit, and I was really self conscious about this fic. Also, there was supposed to be a chapter that was sex between the last one and this one but I just... couldn't.... do it... I hope you like this though.

The day of the rally dawned cold and overcast. Outside of the perfect, golden bubble of Grantaire’s bed, the wind howled. 

 

_ This is the end _ , Grantaire thought as he ran his hands slowly through a sleeping Jules’s hair. He didn’t know for sure, of course, but he could feel it. When you had died as many times as Grantaire had, there was a point when you developed a sixth sense for it. 

 

In his arms, Jules shifted, humming softly and rubbing his nose against Grantaire’s chest. “Grantaire?” he said sleepily, bleary blue eyes blinking up at him. “Times’s it?” 

 

Grantaire reached out to grab his phone to check the time. “Seven. Do you need to leave to get ready for the rally?” 

 

“Not yet,” Jules said, curling closer to him. “Warm.” 

 

Grantaire chuckled softly. Something occurred to him. “Did Jehan tell you my real name?” he asked. “I only ever said that it was R.” 

 

Jules frowned. He got that weird, distant look in his eyes that he’d been getting lately. “Yeah…” he said. “I… they must have.” 

 

Grantaire nodded. That made more sense then the stupid part of him that had almost hoped… no, he wouldn’t even think it. 

 

Jules’s stomach rumbled, and he moaned pitifully. “I’m hungry,” he complained, mouthing over Grantaire’s collarbone in a very distracting way. 

 

“Well don’t eat me,” Grantaire teased. 

 

Jules nipped him lightly. “But you taste so good,” he hummed. 

 

Grantaire groaned. They were never getting out of bed if the continued on this track. “Stop that,” he said, sitting up. “What do you want to eat? I have…” he paused, thinking. Actually, he didn’t really have anything in his fridge. It had seemed wasteful to go grocery shopping when he was pretty sure he was going to die today. “...a diner within walking distance?” 

 

Jules laughed, sitting up too. “Our waitress is going to be so smug,” he said. 

 

“Somehow, I can’t bring myself to care,” Grantaire said, climbing out of bed. “Ugh, I need a shower.” 

 

“Me too,” said Jules, running a hand through his hair and wincing when he hit a tangle. He looked up at Grantaire, a little hopeful. “We could share?” he offered. “To… save water, you know?” 

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Oh yeah. Saving the planet is your only goal here.” 

 

“Just trying to do my part to reduce my footprint,” Jules confirmed primly. 

  
God, Grantaire loved him. “It’s only the responsible thing,” he said, holding out his hand. 

 

Jules took it, laughing as Grantaire dragged him into the shower. 

 

* * *

 

One very nice and not very water saving shower later, Grantaire and Jules were dressed and on their way to the diner. They held hands the whole way. When they opened the door and their waitress saw them, she just rolled her eyes, but in addition to the omelets and toast that they each ordered, she brought them a plate of beautiful strawberry crepes, which were not on the menu. 

 

During breakfast, they talked shop about the rally. Though Grantaire was certain it was going to end in disaster, he found he felt no fear. He was more prepared for this death than he had ever been. He would miss Jules, but he knew that there was no stopping him. He was content. 

 

After they had had their money firmly refused by their waitress (and they had left her a large tip) Jules gave Grantaire a final, lingering kiss out on the sidewalk.    
  
“I have to go get ready,” he said. “I love you.” 

 

“I love you too,” Grantaire said, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll see you soon.” 

 

Jules left, and Grantaire went back to his apartment. He had to get ready too. He packed all of his things into boxes, taking extra care with the paintings. He had a system to get them back to storage in Paris until he could get to them again in the next life.    
  
Once everything he wanted to keep was ready, he sat down on his bed, looking around the room. This had been a good life. Maybe even the best life. Grantaire was happy with what he had done here, in this life. This body had done well. Whatever it was needed for today, he would face it head on. 

 

He laid down. He had made love with Jules on this bed. Jules would probably die today. Grantaire wondered who he would be next. He pressed his face to the pillows, breathing in Jules’s scent, trying to commit it to memory. The next Enjolras wouldn’t smell like this. It would be years until Grantaire found him again. He was going to miss him so much. 

 

He sat up. He left his apartment for the last time. The sky was heavy with the threat of snow that had not yet fallen.    
  
At the park, there were already at least two hundred people milling around, with more walking up. The stage was set up, but empty except for some musical instruments and a podium off to the side.     
  
“Grantaire!” called a voice, and Grantaire turned to see Jehan running up in a fifties housewife dress with a psychedelic pattern, a neon yellow peacoat, and a floral patterned stocking cap that was at least four feet long.    
  
“Hey,” Graintaire said, “How are you--” 

 

“ _ They’re here!” _ Jehan said in rapid French, cutting him off.  _ “They’re all… I don’t know how… Grantaire they’re  _ here _.”  _

 

_ “Who’s here?” _ Grantaire asked, confused.  _ “What’s going--”  _

 

Behind Jehan, Grantaire saw a familiar figure talking to. “Bernardo?”  he whispered. 

 

It was the man from his last life that he’d been fairly certain was Feuilly, though he was older now, thick black hair starting to go grey at the temples. 

 

He turned to Jehan, shocked.  _ “That’s--”  _

 

_ “Feuilly, I know!”  _ Jehan said, vibrating with excitement. 

 

What Jehan had said hit him, and Grantaire gasped.  _ “All. You said  _ all _. They’re…”  _

 

_ “All of them,”  _ Jehan agreed, voice a little choked.  _ “Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Marius, Musichetta, Eponine--” _

 

_ “Gavroche?”  _ Grantaire breathed, barely even daring to hope. 

 

Jehan nodded, eyes shining.  _ “All of them.”  _

 

Grantaire was shaking.  _ “How?”  _ he asked. 

 

_ “I don’t know!”  _ Jehan said, laughing.  _ “But they’re all people that Enjolras invited to come to the rally. It’s like… I don’t even know. I’ve never seen this before.”  _

 

_ “I need to see them _ , _ ”  _ Grantaire said desperately. 

 

Jehan nodded and took his hand, dragging him back to where the speakers and performers were waiting for the rally to begin. Separately, Grantaire couldn’t reliably recognize anyone but Enjolras, but with all of the Les Amis de l’ABC together… it was obvious. 

 

Combeferre was in his late fifties or early sixties, absentmindedly looking over a set of color coded notecards.  _ “He’s a professor at Stanford, though he’s from Hong Kong,”  _ Jehan said.  _ “He speaks on human potential for kindness.”  _

 

Courfeyrac was maybe seventeen or eighteen, short and with the beginnings of a wispy beard, twirling a drumstick in his hand as he spoke to several other teenagers.  _ “He’s in a trans rock band out of Australia.”  _

 

Bahorel was about forty, smiling and laughing. _ “He helped bring down the Apartheid in South Africa.”  _

 

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta stood together with their heads bowed, speaking hurriedly in a language Grantaire didn’t understand.  _ “They’re here to talk about democratic socialism in Scandinavia.”  _

 

Marius, who looked about thirty, held a woman’s hand tightly. They wore matching rings, and she had a hijab on. “ _ They’re performers too. They’re from Pakistan. I think the woman is Cosette.”  _

 

Eponine could be any age, it was hard to tell with all of the makeup she was wearing. She was about six feet tall, made taller by high heels.  _ “She was at Stonewall,”  _ Jehan said, sounding awed. 

 

Gavroche took Grantaire the longest to spot. Perhaps because he was seated. He so old that he couldn’t walk, being pushed in a wheelchair. His smile was still wicked and mischievous. 

 

Grantaire was crying.  _ “Gavroche,” _ he said.  _ “Jehan, God, look at him.” _

 

_ “I know,”  _ said Jehan.  _ “He’s been fighting for Indigenous rights in Canada for decades.”  _

 

_ “He’s so old,” _ Grantaire laughed.  _ “Fuck, the pup grew up.”  _

 

He looked around at all of them. His friends were all here, though most of them didn’t know each other.    
  
This would be a good day to die. 

 

* * *

 

As Grantaire had expected, the closer it got to the rally’s starting time, the tenser the air became. There were no counter protesters, but there were faces in the crowd that were distinctly unhappy looking. Any one of them could start something, any moment this could get bad. The police on standby didn’t look pleased to be their either. 

 

Grantaire listened to music and speeches from his old friends, trying to focus on their presence instead of the threat of violence. Courfeyrac’s band was easy to dance to, and Marius’s wife’s voice was high and sweet. Bahorel and Eponine’s stories were inspiring. The beautifully logical optimism of Combeferre’s speech made him smile. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were still so in love. Fueilly’s story about escaping Cuba made Grantaire feel like his last life had meant at least something. Gavroche laughing about all of the incredible things he had done over the course of his life made him cry again. 

 

Finally, after hours of speeches and music with no violent outbursts, Jules took the stage. All of the legion sat behind him as he walked to the podium. Jehan took Grantaire’s hand, squeezing. Grantaire tried to breathe. 

 

“Hello,” Jules said, standing proud in front of hundreds of expectant, unturned faces. “I’m Jules Roth, president of Chicago’s Legion for Change. Thank you for coming to this event to celebrate a better future.

 

“I was raised in this city. It is my home, and my first love. I want to see it grow and flourish. I want to see the people who live here grow and flourish. The world is so full of hate and anger, but those are all just emotions. Emotions can be changed. We can change them. We can turn hate and anger into love and acceptance. 

 

“People are suffering all over this country, all over this world. If we let ourselves be consumed by apathy, if we say that bad things have to happen because people are inherently bad, we become the problem. Elie Wiesel once said that indifference is the epitome of evil. We must not turn our backs on the injustices of the world. We must turn towards them, face them head on, and fight. 

 

“We must, however, also remember that humans are fallible. We must remember greed and anger and hate. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught up in dreams of perfect utopias full of perfect people. When building new systems, we must build them to withstand the trials of human failure.” 

 

Grantaire was grinning like an idiot as he listened. Hearing Jules speak his own words to a crowd that was eating them up make him feel invincible. That was the man he had kissed last night. That was the man who loved him back.    
  
In the crowd, he noticed a strange movement. Someone was pushing through the crowd. A man. Something about him was familiar, and Grantaire realized with horror that he was the man who had hit Jules at the riot. His face was full of unbridled hate, and he was reaching for something under his jacket. 

 

Jules was still talking, he hadn’t noticed the man, and time slowed down as the man began to pull out a gun. Grantaire was on his feet. He was running, racing against time and destiny to get to Jules, to Enjolras.

 

His body slammed into Jules’s delicate form and milliseconds later he felt the bullet hit him in the side. He wished it wasn’t such a familiar feeling. The blunt, dull pressure followed by hot wetness and then, finally, blinding pain. 

 

He and Jules hit the stage behind the podium, thankfully blocked from the shooter by it. There was screaming, the sound of another gunshot, but it was fading in and out of Grantaire’s consciousness. He’d been hit in the gut. The pain was indescribable. He was bleeding heavily, the ground beneath him already slick with blood. 

 

This was it then,” he thought, blearily staring up at Jules as he yelled something at Grantaire. He pulled Grantaire’s upper body into his lap, pressing down on the gaping hole in his side and looking up to call out to someone. 

 

Grantaire’s vision wavered and warped, and it was the eighth Enjolras holding him, the fifth, the third. It was the first Enjolras, burnished gold curls falling everywhere, face bloody and furious. He thought of Eponine dying in Marius’s arms, just like this. 

 

_ “Don’t you worry, Enjolras,”  _ he said in soft French, trying to remember what she had said. Beautiful, brave, wonderful Eponine. _ “It’s just rain. I can’t even feel it.”  _

 

_ “Shut up,”  _ Jules snapped back in the same language, pressing down harder on the wound.  _ “That isn’t what’s happening, Grantaire.”  _

 

Grantaire frowned. Jules couldn’t speak French… was the pain making him hallucinate? 

 

More hands were on him, suddenly, and he was being lifted out of Jules’s arms. “Non…” he murmured, trying to reach out for Enjolras. “Non, Enjolras, s’il vous plaît,” he begged.  _ “He can’t do this alone. I need to be by him, I need to be with him.”  _

 

_ “I’m right here, Grantaire,”  _ said Jules, and a familiar hand took his.  _ “Don’t worry, I’m right here. We need to get you out of here.”  _

 

There were sirens, and the shouting sounded far away now. Grantaire felt himself losing time. 

 

He was being set down on a soft horizontal surface. 

 

He was in an ambulance. 

 

He was in a hospital. 

 

Jules’s hand left his. 

 

Blackness took him, and Grantaire prepared himself for the next life. 

 

* * *

 

Something was beeping with a slow, steady rhythm. It was annoying. Grantaire wanted it to stop. He brought his hand up, like that was going to do something, and felt a slight resistance. There was something in his hand. 

 

He opened his eyes slowly. He looked down. There was an IV sticking out of the back of his hand.  _ His  _ hand. Not the horrible, strange, blurry hand of a baby. Somehow he was… still in this body. 

 

He looked around. There were about a million flowers and balloons with cheerful  _ Get Well Soon _ messages by the uncomfortable hospital bed. The tv was on, turned to mute. It was playing the news. Grantaire watched as the face of the man who had tried to shoot Jules, who had shot him, filled the screen. The words at the bottom said that he had been taken into custody. He looked away from the tv and saw Jules on the other side of his bed, asleep in a really uncomfortable looking chair. He was, as far as Grantaire could tell, completely unharmed. 

 

Alive. 

 

“Jules?” he croaked out, and Jules’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment he looked sleepily confused, then he was sitting up, beaming. 

 

_ “Oh thank God,”  _ he said in rapid, fluent French.  _ “Fuck, Grantaire. Thank God you’re awake. I was so… Fuck you saved me.”  _ He took Grantaire’s hand, pressing the back of it to his forehead and taking deep, shuddering breaths.    
  
Grantaire stared at him, uncompreding. “You’re still here,” he said, in English. 

 

Jules nodded.  _ “Yes, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I swear.”  _

 

Grantaire kept staring. “You’re speaking French,” he said dumbly. 

 

Jules grinned.  _ “I am,”  _ he said. 

 

“You don’t speak French,” Grantaire said, like he was trying to remind Jules of that fact. 

 

_ “Jules didn’t,”  _ Jules said. 

 

Grantaire blinked at Jules. 

 

No. That wasn’t… 

 

_ “Enjolras?”  _ he whispered. 

 

Enjolras grinned, nodding.  _ “Yeah.”  _

 

Grantaire reeled.  _ “But. How? When?”  _

 

_ “I started having dreams and weird flashbacks after you showed me that painting of myself,”  _ Enjolras said, holding Grantaire’s hand tighter.  _ “I couldn’t make sense of it. But then, when you got shot… it just all came back in a rush. I went to Jehan when you were in surgery and they explained Remembering to me.”  _

 

_ “All?”  _ Grantaire asked.  _ “How much is all?”  _

 

_ “All nine lives,”  _ Enjolras said.  _ “I remember all of them. I remember  _ you _.”  _

 

Enjolras Remembered. Enjolras knew him. Enjolras-- 

 

_ “What about Jules?”  _ Grantaire asked, suddenly afraid. 

 

Enjolras frowned.  _ “What about Jules?”  _ he said, confused. 

 

_ “Are you still Jules?”  _ Grantaire asked, afraid. 

 

_ “I’m him as much as I’m Enjolras or any of the others. I’m just…”  _ he shrugged. _ “I’m me.”  _

 

_ “Thank God,”  _ Grantaire said, slumping back in bed. “ _ I was scared that…”  _

 

_ “That what?”  _ Enjolras asked. 

 

Grantaire stared up at the ceiling.  _ “Do you… if you’re Jules, do you still love me?”  _ he asked softly. 

 

Next to him, Enjolras chuckled. A delicate hand cupped his face, and turned his head to look at Enjolras.  _ “Grantaire, you have been by my side for two hundred years. You have died for me eight times. You took a bullet for me not even twenty four hours ago. I love you. As Jules. As Enjolras. I love you with every name and every face I have ever had.”  _

 

Grantaire felt tears prick at his eyes.  _ “I love you too,”  _ he whispered. 

 

Enjolras pressed their foreheads together, and for a moment they just breathed each other’s air. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw a flurry of movement on the tv, and he looked to see what was happening. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the words RIOT CONTINUES IN CHICAGO AFTER ALT-RIGHT PROTESTER SHOOTS SPEAKER AT RALLY, NATIONAL GUARD CALLED IN. Grantaire stared at it, frowning. 

 

“There’s fighting in the streets,” he said quietly. 

 

Enjolras turned to look at the tv, sighing. “Yeah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Several injuries, but no deaths. Yet.” 

 

“Why aren’t you there?” Grantaire said. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that you always are involved in.” 

 

Enjolras shook his head, letting out a rueful, irritated huff. “And where did that get me? I wanted to be a martyr, but I just died. No one remembered me and no one cared and nothing changed.” 

 

“I remembered you,” Grantaire said. “I cared. I changed.” 

 

Enjolras pressed the heels of his hands to his face. “But that’s… it wasn’t me dying that did that.” 

 

“No,” Grantaire agreed softly. “It was your living.” 

 

Enjolras nodded, turning to look at Grantaire again. “Exactly! That’s it. I spent all this time dying for a cause when I have the most effect when I’m alive.” 

 

Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. Enjolras finally understood. He finally, finally saw. “This is… you’re right. When you make things change you do it by talking to people, not dying.” 

 

Enjolras sighed. “The world changes so slow. Sometimes things like this,” he gestured to the tv, “are needed. But… I’ve died so many times for this world. Just this once… I want to live for it.” 

 

Grantaire made a strangled noise, reaching out desperately to grab Enjolras. 

 

“You’ll stay with me?” he asked, fingers tangled in his hair. 

 

Enjolras nodded. “I’ll stay.” 

 

Grantaire pulled him onto the narrow hospital bed and kissed him like the world was… not ending… like the world was beginning anew. 


	15. Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue. Hope it's a satisfying ending for you guys.

Enjolras woke up to the aches and pains that, by this point in his life, had faded to background noise. The mid-morning sun was streaming in through the gauzy curtains. He sat up, stretching, and grimaced at the way his bones creaked and popped.

 

He got out of bed, putting on his robe and slippers (he got chilly easier these days), and shuffled to the bathroom. The world was fuzzy and indistinct until he put on the glasses sitting on the counter that made him feel like he was looking out at the world from inside of a fishbowl. Grantaire said they made him look distinguished. Enjolras disagreed.

 

His hands, gnarled and wrinkled with age, shook slightly as he picked up the pill caddy, shaking out the stupidly large number of pills from the morning slot for the day. At least Grantaire needed more that he did. Small victories.

 

Once he had showered and dressed, he went out into the kitchen. Grantaire sat at the table, sipping his coffee as he scrolled through the morning news. There was a cup of tea sitting across the table from him, steam eddying from the surface. 

  
Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders, kissing his shiny bald head (Grantaire had shaved it the second he noticed himself starting to go bald, and had grown a beard to make up for it), before going to his side of the table, wrapping his cold, achy hands around the warm porcelain.

 

Once his tea was done to stood to go make breakfast, smiling at the holiday cards, wedding invitations, birth announcements, and colorful crayon drawings that covered the fridge.

  
  
“Oh,” said Grantaire, the first thing he’d said all day. “Jehan sent us a copy of their new book, it’s on the counter.”

 

Enjolras smiled, pulling out the ingredients for omelets (Grantaire did most of the cooking still, but this one thing he could manage), and setting them onto the counter next to _Poetry for The Functional Immortal_. He smiled softly, flipping it open to the first page.

 

_For the Babylonian prince I once had a steamy affair with. Can’t remember his name, but he had pretty eyes._

 

_Oh, and for e and R, happy 70 year anniversary you crazy kids._

 

Enjolras grinned. “Is that today?” he asked, bringing two plates of eggs to the table, handing one to Grantaire before sliding into his lap.

 

Grantaire huffed like Enjolras was heavy, then wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s waist, pressing his face in his soft white hair. “It was three weeks ago,” he said. “The kids wanted to throw us a big party but you said something about not making love into capitalism.”

 

Enjolras chuckled. “Sounds like me,” he said, leaning into Grantaire’s embrace. He wasn’t as strong as he had been when they were young, but he still made Enjolras feel so safe. “What did we do instead?” he asked.

 

“We had a picnic,” Grantaire said.

 

“In this weather?” Enjolras said, his nose wrinkling.

 

Grantaire laughed. “Apollo, we live in the south of France.”

 

“But it’s winter,” Enjolras said, giving an exaggerated shiver.

 

Grantaire shook his head fondly. “Drama queen.”

 

Enjolras curled up in his lap (as best as arthritis would let him) and ate his breakfast. Once they were finished and the plates were cleaned, they went to sit in the living room. Grantaire laid down, his head in Enjolras’s lap, and Enjolras played with his beard lazily. On the wall hung some of Enjolras’s favorites of Grantaire’s paintings:

 

Enjolras on their wedding day, sprawled out in his chair at the reception with his bow tie untied, laughing uproariously at Jehan’s Friend of Honor speech.

 

Chicago’s Friends of the People (the renamed Chicago’s Legion for Change) cutting the ribbon for a brand new LGBT youth homeless shelter.

 

All of their foster kids bunched up in a big group, smiles big and genuine, so different from when they had first entered their home.

 

Enjolras swearing into the Illinois House of Representatives.

 

Enjolras’s moms holding hands, near the ends of their lives but still so in love with each other and him.

 

Jehan accepting their Poet Laureate of the United States award in a hunter orange suit jacket and a puce corduroy ball gown.

 

Their first grandchild sleeping on Enjolras’s chest.

 

Enjolras and Grantaire at thirty, at fifty, at seventy. Enjolras and Grantaire growing up. Growing old. The world around them changing slowly, but still changing.

 

Grantaire looked up sleepily from Enjolras’s lap, reaching up to cup his face. “You’re so beautiful,” he said softly.

 

Enjolras snorted. “I’m pretty sure you can’t see my face under the wrinkles as this point,” he teased.

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “That’s beautiful.”

 

Enjolras stopped laughing, smiling down at Grantaire’s own wrinkled face. They were ninety two years old. It was, in fact, extremely beautiful. He leaned down to kiss Grantaire. “I love you,” he whispered.

 

“I love you too,” Grantaire said, eyes slipping shut again.

 

As the afternoon passed by, Enjolras read Jehan’s poetry, reading the occasional line or two to Grantaire. After a while, he had to put it away though, the small text hurting his eyes.

 

“Let’s have dinner outside,” Grantaire said as the light began to take on the golden quality of late afternoon.  

 

Enjolras wrapped a throw blanket around himself as Grantaire threw together some sandwiches. They went out to their front porch, sitting on the porch swing with their hand intertwined.

 

It was quiet, only the occasional person passing by to greet them in cheerful French. Enjolras and Grantaire watched the sunset together, Enjolras’s head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

 

Night came, and Enjolras complained about the cold. They went back inside. They got ready for bed together, teasing each other sleepily about all of the pills they had to take.

 

They got into bed. Enjolras settled his head on Grantaire’s chest, humming softly in contentment.

 

“What’re you thinking about, ange?” Grantaire asked smiling down at him.   
  
“Just… it’s been a good life,” Enjolras said sleepily.

 

Grantaire smiled, settling back into the mattress. “Yeah,” he said. “A good life.”

 

“A long life,” Enjolras yawned. “But now I’m tired.”

 

Grantaire squeezed him lightly. “I know, Apollo.”

 

“I love you, do you know that?” Enjolras asked.

 

Grantaire smiled. “I do. I love you you too.”

 

Grantaire took his hand. Enjolras felt himself drifting off.

 

Death took Enjolras into its arms as he slept peacefully, his hand firmly held Grantaire’s.

 

There was absolute blackness. There was absolute silence. He was free from the aches and pains of old age. He could finally sleep.


	16. Ten

Then he woke up. 


End file.
